


Monsters and Marionettes

by WrithingBeneathYou



Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen, Horror, M/M, Multi, Suspense, dark fantasy settings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2020-11-24 00:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 49
Words: 64,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: This is an anthology of horror-themed ficlets, all based on the Founders.(Chapter-specific ratings and warnings are listed in the author's note before each chapter. Themes and pairings are listed in the chapter titles.)





	1. HashiMada- Bite (Part 1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing(s): Hashirama/Madara, (Izuna/Tobirama implied)  
Theme: Vampire/Hunter AU  
Rating: T

It’s a lovely evening—mild and temperate the way they all are during late-Autumn in Fire Country.

Tonight is going to mark the twelfth annual lighting of the solstice lanterns, Madara notes. There will be festivities, the savory scent of food vendors, and children with sticky hands underfoot. Couples will be courting in their gaily patterned yukatas. Families will come together to coax good tidings from the winter gods.

It’s going to be undeniably beautiful.

Not that he’ll live long enough to see it, but revisiting the nostalgia of years past is still nice.

Inhaling deeply, Madara scoots his hips another inch to the right to keep within the dwindling shaft of sunlight. He’s been watching the sun set in stages for the past hour, sitting against the wall of what was once probably a living room before this apartment block was condemned.

The stucco is crumbling and there are cracks a hand span wide through the hardwood floors, but the glass door leading to the balcony is still inexplicably intact. He could make a run for it. Try at least. If only the actual handle of the damn thing wasn’t thoroughly embedded in the shadows.

Hashirama sighs. “Madara, you’re being silly.”

Snorting in derision, Madara lets his head thunk back against the wall.

“Fuck off, Hashirama.”

It’s not ‘silly’ to drag this out—it’s survival. Maybe if he stalls long enough Izuna will figure out where he’s gone and somehow manage to rescue him from the culmination of a life-long chain of fuck ups. They weren’t supposed to split up—Madara _told_ him that. He was weak in the face of his brother’s persistence, though. And now he sits here in a torn kimono, weaponless and waiting for the inevitable.

Hashirama rolls his eyes and plops down on the floor next to him, careful to keep to the razor edge of the shadows. Dust rises all around them, catching the sunbeams and making them dance.

It’s quiet here.

Comfortable if not for the company.

“Mada, please. It’s really not that bad!” Hashirama whines plaintively. “Sure, there’ll be some things that are different. The food. Sleep schedule. That sort of stuff. But it’s not as scary as you think. We can be close again, like we used to be.” Hashirama gestures hugely in his too-tight sweater and recoils with a soft hiss when his hand strays too far out of the darkness.

The steady shift of the sun through the apartment has Madara pushing up and moving another inch. He looks over at his once-friend and despairs at the earnestness carved into that handsome face.

He never should have gone spelunking in the abandoned gem mine when he was a kid.

He never should have befriended the little boy with the sunshine smile.

Never should have fallen for the monster he was meant to slay.

“I’m a _hunter_, Hashirama. I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to be your anything.”

He does.

“I just want to get Izuna and go home. I don’t want to be stuck in this dump anymore and I especially don’t want to sit here waiting to be turned into a piss-sucking vampire,” he snaps, fingers curling around an imagined stake. Not that it would help considering Hashirama’s strength and the weakness of his own heart.

Hashirama laughs, the sound rich and resonating. “That’s disgusting.” He shakes his head and grins with far too many teeth.

“You’re disgusting,” Madara retorts reflexively.

“Your face is disgusting.”

And suddenly it’s like they’re kids again—slinging rocks and pulling pigtails.

“No. It’s a really nice face, actually,” Hashirama amends quickly. “You’ve always been beautiful. I’ve really missed being able to see you.”

Madara blinks to clear the haze from his eyes and tries to swallow past the rising thickness. He plants his elbows on his knees and buries his face in the safety of his palms, for how long, he can't say. There’s a slight shift in temperature on his left side, a sudden coolness. Even so, he doesn’t scoot over.

Hashirama’s palm brushes his thigh.

"Madara?"

There’s a tug at Madara’s sleeve and he reluctantly moves with it, leaning into Hashirama’s side. It’s a defeat that tastes like ash on his tongue—all the more acrid knowing there’s still a chance to claw his way out of this, but realizing that he won’t. He’s been fighting for well over twenty years now.

He’s tired.

“I just…promise me Izuna will be okay,” he all but whispers, letting his hands fall to his lap.

“Of course. He’s your family,” Hashirama states simply, as if that single designation means everything. “Tobi may play rough, but he knows not to actually hurt your little brother.”

Madara nods and exhales slowly. The chill of long fingers slipping between his own contrasts sharply with the warm swath of sun still blanketing his chest. For the first time in ages, he allows himself to meet Hashirama’s eyes—gold on black.

“Will it hurt?” he asks.

There’s a flash of something alien and old in Hashirama’s expression, there and gone before it can be remarked upon. “Not even a little,” he lies, eyes soft and mouth set in a smile. 


	2. Tobiizu- Spider (Part 1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s torture having his prey so close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Tobirama/Izuna  
Theme: Yōkai  
Rating: T

It’s torture having his prey so close.

When meetings had been relegated to monthly skirmishes, the pull had been tolerable. A distant craving.

But now…

Now the regularity of seeing that saccharine smile has Tobirama near slavering. The waterfall of pitch black hair, the way his prey’s lips unintentionally mimic the notes he writes when Hashirama speaks.

Everything about this man is infuriating.

Intoxicating.

Tobirama’s hidden mandibles click against the back of his teeth in anticipation. Just one bite is all he needs. One tender moment where his fangs unfurl and sink into all of that soft, unprotected flesh. His venom would take to those blue veins and devour slowly over the course of days.

It would be such a leisurely death, allowing him to luxuriate in his victim’s pliancy—allowing him to take what should have already been his. 

What nearly was.

The cacophonous drag of chairs and shifting bodies draws Tobirama back to himself abruptly. Cataloging the room with a glance, he rearranges his kimono to obscure the shifting line of his body and resettles his happuri more firmly over his pedipalps . The chitin on his belly shifts back beneath faux skin. Segmented joints merge into two long simulacra of arms.

For going on thirty years, he’s never once slipped up so badly.

Still, the faux pas is manageable. He simply has to glare a path through the milling clan leaders and storm from the room with purpose. Luckily, this behavior is commonplace enough not to be remarked.

He tears down the hallway, sandals slapping and the trailing edges of his kimono flaring out. The sparse walls of his office pull him in and cloister him away from prying human eyes. It’s come to be his sanctuary—one wherein there are no delicious scents of sweet and savory meat waiting to be devoured.

No lovely, web-like strands of hair to wrap around his fist and pull until the Uchiha bares his throat.

Groaning, Tobirama collapses in his chair. He viciously rubs his faces and smooths back his hair.

Something will have to be done soon.

Yōkai were never meant to be denied sustenance for so long, and there is only one meal that will suffice. Only one meal that will sooth his instincts and keep him from abandoning his brother in favor of spinning webs in the forest and abducting passersby.

A loud knock makes his door rattle in its frame. Eyes wide and pupils dilated fully, Tobirama snaps his head up just in time to watch Uchiha Izuna slip in and toe the door shut behind him.

What little calm he had regained disappears between breaths.

“Hey, Snowflake, you have a minute?”

Izuna casually saunters over and leans his hip up against the side of Tobirama’s desk, toying with an unstoppered ink well. The delicacy of those fingers dancing so near has Tobirama’s nostrils flaring. 

“We need to review next month’s budget before provisions can be distributed,” Izuna drawls, all sly humor, though Tobirama can’t figure out the joke. He leans in close and lets his kimono front gape wide—Madara’s if the size is any indication.

It’s too much. The exposed triangle of chest, the gentle tease, the wafting scent of him so close.

Tobirama’s eyes shift until he’s watching that lovely face from several different angles, fangs blooming from the corners of his lips. Shinobi or not, Izuna will not elude him.

There will be no older brothers to stay his hand.

This time he _feeds_.


	3. MadaTobi- Possession (Part 1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While peace has been a boon, the founding of Konohagakure was not without personal cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Tobirama/Madara  
Theme: Possession  
Rating: M
> 
> Warning for all of the consent issues that go along with having someone else controlling your body.

While peace has been a boon, the founding of Konohagakure was not without personal cost.

The day Tobirama stepped foot into the shadow of Hashirama’s first great structure, he was lost. There was no specific antecedent—no moment of soul-crippling horror—to provide some clue as to the nature of the will that possesses him now.

Throughout the morning, he had surveyed the cleared land and guided Hashirama and his team of doton users in the laying of foundations. Lunch was a simple affair, made by his own hand. The work to follow had mostly consisted of assisting his brother and Madara in moving personal affects into their respective clan houses. Dinner was a simple bowl of rice and miso, eaten mechanically as he sat on the bare floor of his room while merriment rose up from down the hall. Though he would never admit it, he was content to listen to his brother’s voice, flavored by exhaustion, but no less happy for it.

The setting sun eased him down onto his futon and tucked him into a night of restful sleep.

When it rose again, his body was not his own.

The simple, habitual motions of gathering clothing and performing his ablutions were as easy and free as always. It was when he began making tea that there was the first inkling of something off. He shifted through the contents of a storage scroll in search of the ceramic jar of genmaicha. Instead, he pulled out white tea leaves, too subtle a taste for this early in the day. Try as he might to place it back in the scroll, his hands deftly steeped the young leaves and prepared two cups.

Hashirama was never in the house past dawn.

From then on, the presence made itself known in force. Tobirama’s preferences in food, in clothing, in every minor thing that he could claim as his own were shifted to the opposite. Heavily spiced beef instead of grilled fish, red drapery instead of cool blues in utilitarian cuts, even his kanji developed a flourish that slowed his output by thirty percent. His odd behaviors didn’t go unremarked, but the hand that guided him also owned his lips. Hashirama’s concerns were assuaged with soft words and an even softer smile—a rare thing before the Founding.

His new mannerisms gained him the company of others. Friends were not something he ever cared to have and being beholden to their whims destroyed any opportunity for research he could claw his way into.

From the outside, he appeared to be adjusting to this new life and blooming as a well-rounded person.

Inside, he wanted nothing more than to tell the world to fuck off and go back to the solitude that made him feel whole.

A year into this strange, awkward settling, consequences began to spawn that Tobirama never could have foretold. Namely, Madara. The man whose brother he had cut down was a proud sort—surly and dark when not in Hashirama’s company. But, Tobirama’s new exuberance for life and conversation seemed to have worn down that facade and opened the door for healing.

The presence made a point of seeking him out, of saying exactly the right things to win glimpses of that fabled Uchiha compassion. 

Tobirama seethed.

Madara could burn in a pyre of his own making, for all he cared.

The moment Tobirama’s mouth fitted over the words of an invitation to dinner was the first time he heard the voice within him.

It snickered softly.

And things only grew worse from there.

The Uchiha clan head began to seek him out during the work day. His own legs found their way to Madara’s office often enough as well.

There was a kiss—tentative and sweet—that had Tobirama trying to claw through his own chest and land a blow on that hideous face. He raged until his eyes bled, only noting that the moisture was from unshed tears when it was pointed out to him.

_Happiness will do that_, the voice drawled smugly.

Whose happiness? All Tobirama could feel was the ice-cold calm of fury settle in as his personal nightmare took root.

After that there were Madara's visits—tea had in each other’s company, watching the sakura blossoms fall with fingers tangled. It was a long, slow courting the likes of which storytellers would sing but never should have existed between two men raised in war.

Over time the touches began to grow less chaste. Strangely enough, this was when the presence would pull back. It would continue to bully Tobirama into performing, but the script was left on automatic from there.

When the culmination of their courting dance finally arrived, the presence left him entirely.

It was Tobirama’s weight that instinctively sank down onto the thickness of Madara’s cock. His own voice rising in a punched out call of pleasure. So used to being a puppet, he rolled his hips to meet Madara’s thrusts without questioning the lack of a heavy hand on his autonomy.

They fucked like they were making love—flowing together time and time again throughout the night, whispering, laughing, and calling out the other’s name in turns. When Madara’s tears fell hot and heavy against his cheeks, Tobirama knew he would receive the same repeated statement of _happiness will do that_ and so ignored them.

His anger still burned in his heart, but the presence had taught him that it was an impotent thing. 

One he no longer tries to act upon.

Tobirama blinks up at the ceiling and lets the memories of his downfall fade. Madara is his husband and has been for going on six months now. The man is a heavy, familiar weight across his chest and he’s grown accustomed to the stickiness between them now as well.

He knows his life is not his own—he’s come to terms with that fact and is happier for it.

“Mmm, you’re thinking too loud again,” Madara murmurs sleepily as he burrows his nose into Tobirama’s neck. 

Sighing, Tobirama strokes his hair and holds him close.

“Simply considering how best to say 'I love you,'” the presence nudges him to reply, bowing his head to press a kiss where Madara’s temple is still damp with sweat from their lovemaking.

It’s the profession of a brother, meant in the familial sense, but voiced by the mouth of a lover instead.

And suddenly, things make a sickening amount of sense.

The voice laughs. 

_Took you long enough, Senju. _


	4. TobiIzu and HashiMada- Bite (Part 2 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Chapter 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing(s): Tobirama/Izuna, Hashirama/Madara  
Theme: Vampire/Hunter AU  
Rating: T

Izuna freely admits this isn’t his proudest moment.

Hunters are supposed to be badass—decked out in leather armor with a sword on each hip and a strut so sexy it lingers in a room. They’re the kind of people who court death and hone stakes on the sharpness of their jaw line alone.

That’s fine.

His leathers are…somewhere, and yes, he forgot to lash on his typical arsenal, but his brother’s panic signal went out five minutes ago and he didn’t have _time_ to prep. The only thing his terror-induced fumbling was able to accomplish was grabbing a bundle of clothes that turned out to be the holy wear Sister Ayame had dropped off with good—if misguided— intentions.

Oh, and he pocketed a broken spoon handle.

He’s a blight on the Uchiha name.

Whatever.

Still, this pasty fucker doesn’t have to laugh so openly about it.

“Would you shut the hell up already,” he snaps, tightening his fist in Tobirama’s hair and pressing his improvised stake in a hairsbreadth deeper.

All he’s afforded is a baleful glare for his troubles.

“I hardly think you’re in a position to order me about,” Tobirama drawls, dragging his nails along Izuna’s rosary where it hangs low on his hips. Each cheery tap emits a scent like burning hair.

If anyone were to see them like this—entangled in the entryway of an abandoned apartment complex—they’d look for all the world like a couple, enamored and intimate. As it is, the weight of Tobirama’s arms around Izuna’s waist makes him want to come out of his skin. 

“I’m not the one about to eat eight inches of premium bamboo spoon handle. You’re going to tell me where my Nii-san is now, or so help me…” his sentence peters out for lack of a threat with any bite. Killing Tobirama isn’t exactly an option, especially if Hashirama has Madara. Failing that, Izuna doesn’t have any holy water secreted away in the lining of Sister Ayame’s robes—no relics of power or powdered saintly remains up the voluminous sleeves to wound, not kill.

He really messed this one up.

And they’re both well aware of that fact if Tobirama’s growing grin is anything to go by.

“I would gladly tell you where Anija is, but I’m afraid that when it comes to sharing secrets, I’m not in the _habit_,” Tobirama snorts, smoothing a line up Izuna’s spine and pulling pointedly at the already lopsided nun’s veil.

“Oh no. No, no, no, no. You don’t get to make the puns. _I _make the puns, jokes, and any and all witty rejoinders in this relationship. Your job is keeping your filthy vampire hands off of my religious garb, shutting your blood-sucking mouth, and telling me where Madara is!” Izuna presses in close enough to share breath and narrows his eyes at Tobirama’s smug, sanctimonious face. The difference in height is infuriating.

“Well, which is it? Should I shut my ‘blood-sucking mouth’, or should I provide you the information you need?” Tobirama asks, deadpan.

Before Izuna can let fly a truly scathing comment, a scream echoes down the hall, coming from the floor immediately above.

Adrenaline hits like a hammer and terror takes hold. His stomach clenches and his heart races.

That was Madara.

That was his Nii-san in trouble.

Wrenching free from Tobirama’s hold with strength born of desperation, Izuna gets his foot up between them and kicks. The blow is powerful despite the awkward leverage and knocks Tobirama back a step—leaves him grasping at wisps of fabric as Izuna hitches up his skirts and sprints towards the stairs.

The air around him thins. His lungs burn with gathering frost. Then, Tobirama is right before him in the stairwell, tall and resplendent in a faint patina of ice.

Izuna doesn’t know how he’s managed to survive taking this eldritch beast on for so many years. He only hopes his luck holds out now.

“Move,” he yells, using the guard rail to throw his weight forward and slam a shoulder into Tobirama’s gut.

Tobirama takes the blow and spins with the momentum. He buries his claws into Izuna’s habit and shoves him half over the banister in a dizzying shadow step that makes Izuna’s vision waver.

He struggles against Tobirama’s hold, screaming inarticulately as he’s pinned between the metal railing and nature’s most perfect monster.

His scream is echoed above—a long, sustained note that makes Izuna frantic.

“Get the fuck off of me, Snowflake!” he roars. Blinded by fear and deaf to anything but the staccato beat of his own pulse, Izuna rears back and kicks the metal railing so hard it buckles. He clings to it as it folds over and uses the position to roll Tobirama up his back and toss him over his shoulder.

They’re not up high enough for the vampire to fall more than a few feet—not that it would hurt the bastard to fall from any sort of a height—but it gives Izuna enough time to scurry back onto his feet and bolt up to the second story.

Threadbare carpet tears under his feet as he sprints down the corridor, winter wind at his back.

He slams his shoulder against a rotten door and stumbles into an apartment that’s more whole than some of the others.

Madara’s head snaps up to regard him with wide, red eyes.

Izuna stares back.

“Damn it, Nii-san,” he moans, dropping the over-long hem of his habit as Tobirama’s hands settle on his shoulders. 


	5. MadaGai- Abyssal Merman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment spent between Madara and his human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Madara/Gai (AKA the best pairing ever)  
Theme: Merman  
Rating: E...very much E
> 
> Warnings for very graphic, very strange fish-man sex. lol

Madara reclines against his human paramour and watches the stars bob and sway with the motion of the waves. It’s been a pleasant evening—a bounty of shark meat in his belly and the satiation of another night spent in Maito Gai’s company settled in his loins.

The man is a furnace-hot bundle of enthusiasm with no small amount of skill in taking him apart. And by the Deep does Madara want to be dissembled down to his base elements.

He presses a needle-toothed grin against the steady pulse in Gai’s neck, nips gently just for the thrill of it.

“Again, Beast?” he teases, eagerly undulating his tail to force his prehensile cocks further into Gai’s grip. The lingering come lends a slickness to his human’s callouses that is simply a gift—and my, what a joy the discovery of rough skin had been that first time. “I’m surprised your frail body can swell again so soon.”

Gai laughs, the sound a low, intimate rumble akin to his boat’s motor when it idles. “My passion is a most vigorous exercise, but one which I can endure. However, I will stop if you ask,” he retorts, all bright smile and challenge. “It is not my intention to push you past your limits.”

He punctuates the tease with a firm stroke and shifts to chase the affronted scowl from Madara’s lips. There’s always a slightly awkward moment where Madara has to remind himself that this is human intimacy and not an attack. Kisses are strange, but Gai’s lips are soft against the thinness of his own and that intrepid tongue licks into his mouth to lap up every panting breath without regard for the danger of his teeth.

Each moment spent beached on this modest deck boat results in such sweet discovery.

“Ah,” Madara murmurs, gills flapping uselessly against his ribs, “If you dare stop I’m going to devour you and spit out your bones for the squid.”

Again, Gai chuckles, planting a trail of kisses along the line of sharpened scales on his cheekbones. He drags his wicked fingers down the slick, sensitive ridges of the underside of Madara’s cocks and goes further, fingering his slit open with a wet squelch. The silky remnants of Gai’s own come spill as he works three fingers in up to the second knuckle.

Madara inhales sharply and undulates hard to chase the bright flare of pleasure. Before this ridiculous man, he had no idea that anything could even go into his vent, much less to such incredible effect. The pleasure is acute and so sharp it hurts.

“Would you, ah, get on with it already,” he keens, thrashing.

Gai holds him against his chest with all the give of a Kraken and chides him gently. “Your body is delicate, love, I wouldn’t want to damage such a glorious form.”

And oh, that’s _such_ a load of fish shit. Madara is a creature of the deep, a nightmare made flesh in the form of flashing claws and razor-sharp fins. He is the terror of the trenches and the invisible hand that rises—

His internal monologue cuts off abruptly on a strangled moan.

Gai’s hand does something complex and rolls Madara’s cocks together with a firm down stroke, sending another bolt of heat straight through him. Scales flutter along his belly as he fights back another broken sound at the wet plunge of fingers just below the base of his dicks.

He gives in and lets Gai work him closer and closer to the breaking point, trembling and fluctuating between translucent and opaque as he rides the knife edge of too much.

The long line of Gai’s own interest ruts against the fleshy fin at his hip. If Madara could think, he would reciprocate, but there’s no room for any thought other than marveling at the violent spurts of precome spilling over Gai’s hand and dripping down into his swollen vent.

And finally, his human mouths at his shoulder, takes a dorsal ridge between his teeth, and angles Madara’s sex down into himself. He can hear the wet sound of it, can see his own black cocks disappearing into the milkiness of his already-full vent. That’s Gai’s earlier release he’s thrusting into under his human’s guidance—thick, and heavy, and boiling within him.

The lips of his slit cling to the combined girth of Gai’s fingers and his tapered cock heads. Together they disappear in him until he has the thought to make his tail fade just enough to watch through the window of his scales.

It’s pure relief when the sight pushes him over the edge.

He spills into himself in long, hot spurts. Gai, merciless Gai, massages his folded cocks together after that first jet—hand firm, and wet, and unyielding. Orgasm continues to rock him until he can do no more than shudder and mouth desperately at the air, claws digging into the fiberglass of the deck. His tail goes rigid and his muscles lock. The moon wavers in his vision, and finally, _finally_, Gai’s hand slows.

But, Madara knows from experience that coming down will not be so easy.

As soon as he thinks it, his mountainous human rolls over him more urgently than the tide. One wide-eyed, panting breath, two, and Madara screams as Gai takes himself in hand and pushes down between Madara’s bent cocks, straight into the warm slurry they’ve made in his vent.

Gai pumps his hips furiously, hair swaying and catching the stars as he holds himself up on arms made of iron. Grunting in exertion, he continues to chase his own pleasure, all the while setting Madara alight from within.

Madara rocks with the power of him, so over-stimulated he would beg if he could. Release pours down the sides of his tail, gathers under his scales, and makes him slide with each unforgiving thrust.

Gai is an unstoppable force.

Unforgiving.

Perfect.

He’s no less solicitous than during those first matings where they had learned how to fit together, but now he knows what Madara likes, what he craves in their couplings. Bless the Deep, his human is willing and able to take him apart.

“Come, Maito Gai,” he orders, voice wavering between frequencies. “Come for me, my glorious Beast.”

And he does.

Gai’s breath stutters in his chest and he drives forward with urgency. Slack lips descend on Madara’s neck, mouthing sloppily along his throat. Every final, faltering death throe is exquisite and Madara drinks in the feel of him. 

They shake together as several thick surges of release fill him so well that they slosh across Madara’s belly. Gai groans—long and loud—and empties himself entirely, then falls still. When the world stops spinning, he collapses next to Madara and pulls him in close, heedless of the mess.

Sighing in contentment, he shifts Madara’s hair aside and plants a tender kiss to his forehead, where the scales continue to waver between black and translucent.

“Mmm, my passions were not too forceful, love?” he murmurs, ever the gentlemen even when lying naked on the deck of a boat with an abyssal mer still half wrapped around his dick.

Madara laughs and buries his face in the swell of his pectorals. There’s a scent to the man, just beneath the smell of sun and motor oil on his skin—something intoxicating that screams predator.

Not that his soft lover is anything of the sort.

They have an ongoing joke that he is secretly a top class hunter, but that’s all it is. The multitude of scars is likely from a run-in with a clam bed. 

No, Gai is his stupid-as-a-bed-of-kelp claim, earnest and good in all of the ways Madara has never known before.

“You’re a dream,” he confesses, black eyes reflecting the moon.


	6. Gen- Parasite (Part 1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobirama knows it's coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: None  
Theme: Parasite  
Rating: M  
Warnings for trauma related to pregnancy, graphic imagery

It’s coming.

Tobirama isn’t sure how he knows, just that he does. Phantom teeth snap down on his chakra coils, gnawing and shredding like the roots of early-spring mokuton. He curls over his distended stomach and keens, long and low where no one can see him.

By the sage it hurts.

Sweat stings his eyes and glues his yukata to his back. The room wavers as if he’s watching it from beneath the surface of the Naka. Contractions rock his body—powerful, chakric swells reminiscent of those weeks when the snow melts and Hashirama’s eyes grow dark and haunted. For a moment, he wonders if this is the end.

But, it’s not. There’s a purpose to the life growing in his belly. Something insistent and old that has resisted his attempts to terminate it at every turn.

At first, he had suspected things that should never be voiced. Insidious, foul imaginings.

He and his brother have always been close. Never in an incestuous way, simply the natural pull of duty and family. And, despite the curl of mokuton pressing shapes into his belly from the inside, he realizes now that this isn’t Hashirama’s doing.

This has the feel of the forest.

Another wave of nausea brings with it a mouthful of leaves and bile to emphasize that fact.

A man’s body was never made to house life.

He falls to his knees with a sharp crack, presses his forehead to the floor of his bedroom, and _screams_.

There’s a thundering coming from down the hall that he only tertiarily notes, too consumed by agony and the first stirrings of fear. Then he feels the brightness of his brother’s touch and the balm of his voice.

“Tobi! What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Gentle hands on his shoulder. A sharp inhale.

Ah, his Anija has seen what he has been fastidiously hiding for the past nine months through clothing choice and henge.

“I—” Tobirama begins, only to choke on the foulness in his mouth, “I don’t know.” The admission is a broken thing, tired and hollow in a way he has never been before. As if his brother’s presence alone is enough to sooth the raging child within him, his stomach stills. Even so, the trembling doesn’t abate. He clutches his brother’s kimono with white knuckles as he watches the room narrow.

Hashirama is saying something—several somethings in the upper limits of his register—but none of it processes.

Darkness creeps in like the shadows of leaves at the edges of his mind.

He thinks he rasps something about the forest.

Then everything goes black.

***

Consciousness returns in stages. There’s the snap of branches under heavy footfalls, a furnace-hot chest jostling against his side, and the brightness of the mid-morning sun making everything pink behind his eyelids. 

The forest air is crisp and clear.

It’s strange—or perhaps not so strange—but being surrounded by the trees feels right in a way nothing else has for months. Strong arms lower him down in a shaft of sunlight, pillowed by leaves. There’s power here. Tobirama can feel it even over the towering chakra of his brother.

Power and the absence of pain.

Leaves pillow his back and support his hips. Hashirama’s deft hands remove his obi and peel the panels of his yukata open to reveal the mound of his stomach.

“Otouto, this is going to hurt. I’ll do my best to ease the pain. I’m so sorry,” he says, apologetic, but with the stony conviction of a general.

Tobirama thinks he nods—he could be smiling. He’s not sure. The forest hums in his blood and makes his body feel like background noise. The only thing he can truly focus on is the bright point of life pulsing within a womb that shouldn’t exist.

One breath.

Two.

Steel kisses his stomach and draws a line down, trailing warmth behind it. The heaviness that weighed him down abates and takes with it the little rootlets that had been siphoning his chakra. Hashirama’s summer-strong power rushes into his body like a salve.

What could be seconds, could be hours pass in a haze until his Anija finally pulls away.

“Oh fuck,” he hears Hashirama hiss.

Oh, fuck, indeed. With the child removed, awareness slams back in and sears through the pleasant lassitude. Tobirama pushes at the forest floor to scrabble halfway onto his brother’s lap, exposed and coated in the tackiness of his own blood, but with a stomach that’s mended and mercifully flat. Hashirama’s ironwood arm wraps around his chest, the other rising past his shoulder to call on the mokuton if need be.

A large, mud-covered seed pod pulses several times from a meter away. With a resounding crack, it splits down the middle and oozes a tide of clear ichor. The flood of it washes away the evidence of Tobirama’s surgery from the leaf litter and is soaked into the ground quicker than raindrops.

“Anija,” Tobirama blanches as he presses back even more insistently. His bare heels push up mounds of dirt.

Before them stands a child.

It’s already the size of a toddler with the mannerisms and capabilities of a child four times that. It rocks playfully on its feet —a girl with deep chestnut hair and skin the color of caramel—and watches a beetle skitter past before looking up and offering a pleasant wave.

“Hello, mother,” she says, giving Tobirama a generous smile. When her dark eyes fall on Hashirama, the smile grows broad like a rictus grin.

“Brother.”


	7. Gen- Parasite (Part 2 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobirama presses on in his role as a parent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: None  
Theme: Parasite  
Rating: T

Tobirama hitches her up higher on his hip, this nightmare child born of his body.

She’s a gentle thing—kind to animals, mindful of her mother, and always eager to please. Never once has she done anything to suggest the darkness that Tobirama knows is hidden within. In this respect, she’s very much like Hashirama.

But, he knows it’s there.

He felt the insidious roots laying down a network throughout his body and feeding off of him during the pregnancy. They were subtle—so very subtle—and if he were any less of a sensor, he never would have noted the single minded tenacity with which the parasite leeched his strength while sustaining the illusion of keeping him hale. And too, now that he knows what to look for, he can hear his brother’s own siren song mixed into Konohagakure’s foundations.

He is allowed to live because he continues to serve a purpose.

As his brother’s sword, as this nameless child’s progenitor and caretaker.

There is no escape.

He shares a home with monsters whose canopy keeps them all immersed in a darkness so thick it devours.

Mito shares a marriage bed with a creature of nightmare.

Madara watches a beast playact as a man with his heart in his eyes.

Izuna—oddly enough, Izuna is the only one who won’t allow himself to be alone in a room with either Hashirama or the child. There’s always a pressing matter or a conveniently remembered engagement. Perhaps being blind has opened his senses in other ways, Tobirama suspects.

Regardless, it changes nothing.

The roots go too deep.

He blinks slowly in the late-morning sun and accepts a handful of Ryo as change, dutifully bending forward so that his as-of-yet-unnamed terror can take hold of the bundle of produce with sticky hands.

“Thank you, honored elder,” she peeps graciously as she half hides her face in Tobirama’s neck.

Won over entirely, the stall owner returns her shy smile with a withered grin of his own.

Odd how the people of the village never question her presence or manner.

“You are more than welcome, child. May Amenominakanushi shine down and guide you along your path,” he says, bowing formally to them both.

Tobirama acknowledges the Uchiha’s blessing with a single sharp nod and turns to make his way through the bustling crowd.

His daughter holds tight to her armful of leeks and titters into his shoulder.

“Guiding me along my path? What a silly thing to say,” she remarks with far too much intelligence and wisdom for the outward body of a four year old. “That’s what I have Father for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Her Father is the forest.


	8. MadaTobi- Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madara can’t remember when he slept last. Or ate for that matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Madara/Tobirama  
Theme: Haunted  
Rating: M

Madara rubs his face and massages the deep circles that have lingered for weeks now. His complexion is so fair to begin with that the purple rings only emphasize the shadows growing in his cheeks.

He can’t remember when he slept last. Or ate for that matter.

Stacks of unfinished paperwork sit along the perimeter of his desk, staring back at him accusingly with lacquered scroll handles that look like eyes. He knows he has to return to his house eventually. The Senju’s home is no longer an option—hasn’t been for weeks—and there’s no point in lingering in this office with its debilitating work load and the incessant knocking on his wards.

Still, he hesitates.

***

_Izuna drapes himself across Madara’s shoulders, lighter than a man should be and vaguely translucent in his periphery. Soft sunlight filters in through the shoji screens and illuminates his bloody smile. _

_“Do you think I would have gotten married?” he asks conversationally as he toys with a stand of Madara’s hair. _

_Madara flinches. He says nothing in acknowledgement, but the scratching of his pen stops abruptly. _

_“I’d like to think so. Not a high-born waif from the moon or whatever bullshit grandfather used to spout—more like a badass kunoichi with legs for days. Personality and all of that is up for negotiation, but legs are my sticking point,” Izuna continues. _

_His huff of laughter feels like the sweet kiss of a zephyr against Madara’s cheek and he finds himself setting his pen down and closing his eyes against the sudden burning. For the first time since Izuna’s shade insinuated itself into his home, he finds himself unable to block out the words. _

_“You should be more discerning, Otouto,” he utters brokenly as his draft for the month’s proposed budget wavers in his vision._

_At his choked words, Izuna gains a small but noticeable weight and solidity. The perpetual rivulets of blood drip from his chin in slow motion and patter onto the tabletop, black like ink. Madara can feel his yukata grow damp from where Izuna’s chest presses against his back. _

_“Oh, what, do you disapprove, Nii-san?” his brother singsongs. “Fine. How about the Senju instead, hmm? We would have been so pretty together. And just think how strong our clan would be with Senju-fucking-Tobirama in my bed. You know, I bet I could have pulled the stick out of his ass, really grown to love him if I had the chance. You get points for trying, but I think I could have done it better. I guess we’ll never know, though, on account of me being…well…” _

_“Dead,” Madara whispers, finally letting the tears fall. _

***

It’s a lost cause. The moon continues to rise and the shadows creep in—dark fingers grasping with purpose.

Swallowing dryly, Madara pushes away from his desk and stands, surprised to note the ache in his hips. His body has been deteriorating—he’s well aware of that fact—but it’s rather jarring to have such a persistent reminder. 

Not a single scroll was signed today. Not a single wax seal broken.

He’s not sure why he even bothers coming to the tower anymore.

The knocking grows louder, more insistent, and is dismissed with equal fervor.

***

_“What do you think our kids would have looked like?” Izuna asks, lying stretched out on Madara’s futon and leaking a constant flood of pitch onto the linens. The wound in his chest gapes wide enough to see the shine of exposed bone. _

_It’s too much for Madara to face, and so he sits stiffly and watches dust motes dance on the ceiling. _

_“Tobirama and I,” Izuna clarifies as if it wasn’t obvious. “It would be nice if they kept his red eyes and height. Everything else would have to be mine or else they’d end up looking like little ghosts.” _

_Madara clutches the edge of the futon with white knuckled fists. The sound he makes is more animal than man—a low, steady whine that builds in his stomach and works its way up into his throat. _

_There’s a moment where the room itself pulses, then stills. _

_“Actually, I guess they’re fucked either way!” Izuna laughs uproariously, wriggling his ephemeral fingers in the lamplight to emphasize his point. He rolls around in merriment the way he used to when they were children and ends up in a languorous pile of limbs splayed across Madara’s lap._

_“Too soon?” he presses, grinning all the while. _

***

The streets of Konoha are desolate at this hour.

A few stray cats trot through the narrow paths in search of the rats that insist on making this corner of the food district their home. Their shrill death cries ring out in the silence, but fall quiet quickly enough.

Madara pulls the front panels of his haori closed and shivers in his layers of clothing despite the mildness of the evening.

He’s always cold now.

Even if he had the strength to call upon the fiery heart of his katon affinity, he’s not sure if he would bother. His brother is always cool to the touch. It’s better this way. They can share in that particular sensation if nothing else.

***

_Izuna flicks a slice of bamboo shoot across the chabudai and snorts when it lands solidly against the side of his brother’s tea pot. _

_“You know, the one thing I miss more than anything is being able to eat,” he remarks casually as he steals another slice of vegetable from Madara’s bowl. “It’s kind of funny, but when you die you sort of forget things what stuff tastes like. Can you describe it for me, Nii-san?”_

_He can’t. _

_Madara stares at his barely-touched meal. The one piece of beef he managed to load onto his chopsticks turns to ash in his mouth. _

_“Thick. Similar to the color brown,” he replies as he swallows what feels like a bolus of shattered glass._

_His strange answer has Izuna cocking his head, perplexed. There’s a flash of something in his eyes—almost like the beginnings of the Sharingan—there and gone before Madara can remark on his lack of tomoe. _

_Not that he would. _

_Those missing tomoe are his now. _

_“And this one? I used to love tempura vegetables,” Izuna prods, holding up an amorphous shape that could be anything. _

_Like the beef, it too has all the palatability of a kunai. _

_“How about the miso?”_

_Madara chokes on the broth and resolves to never eat again. _

_“Here, try this for me.”_

***

Toeing off his sandals and kicking them away absently is an ingrained habit that Madara has picked up since Izuna replaced Tobirama in his home. There’s no energy left in him to care about things like keeping his clothing tidy or sweeping the trail of dirt from the engawa. At least the tracks of his bare feet in the sand let him know that he’s still alive.

If only for a time.

Then he’ll be with Izuna again.

As if the thought of his otouto summons him, Izuna steps out of the shadow of the hall and leans against the wall, arms crossed loosely against his chest.

“You’re late, Nii-san,” he chides gently.

The shade pushes himself off with a put-upon sigh and closes the distance between them. He takes Madara’s slender hands in his own and plants a sweet kiss on each knuckle.

“Always working too hard. You deserve a break.”

As if he’s done any work at all, Madara thinks. Still, it’s nice to be acknowledged—to be loved. The path to his bedroom passes in a series of still frame images. This strange dissociation with the world around him should be worrisome, but it isn’t. Izuna is here now. The rest of it can fall away.

The futon rises up to meet him.

He doesn’t remember lying down.

“Can you dream for me tonight?” Izuna croons, so close his wafting breath smells like ozone—like sulfur. “I want you to have a really good one so you can wake up and tell me about it. Here, I’ll lie right here so you can think of something special for me.”

There’s weight on Madara’s chest.

“Remember, I want it to be something nice.”

A hand wrapped softly—lovingly—around his throat.

“_Madara_!”

The sudden flare of wards sends out a percussive note like a gong. It rocks the air and rattles the shoji screens in their tracks.

With a herculean effort, Madara manages to pry open his eyes just a slit.

The creature wearing Izuna’s face shudders between forms above him—shifting rapidly between fingers and claws, skin and shadows. It rears back just as the first sweep of suiton roars between them.

Seals flare to life in sequence along Tobirama’s forearms and set the room alight, illuminating the fury that distorts his typically austere face.

“Damn. And this one was almost mine,” the creature hisses, laughing.


	9. Madatobi- Demons (Part 1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madara should know better than to trust his husband with anything concerning summoning magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing(s): Madara/Tobirama, implied future Hashirama/Madara  
Theme: Demons  
Rating: M

Madara runs his fingers along the banister leading up to the mezzanine and gathers the dust in his hand. He watches the lingering traces of collective belief glimmer, then die on his glove. Magic fills the space and ignites the little gray bundle, briefly illuminating his face in the darkness of the church.

Having been abandoned long ago, there’s little here in this derelict place of worship that could pose his primordial magics any threat. Hell, even if it were packed floor to ceiling with penitents, they couldn’t touch him.

Still, it’s better that there’s no other old gods to contend with in the summoning tonight. Tobirama would be disappointed if they failed for so infinitesimal a thing.

“Love,” a cold voice beckons, accompanied by an even chillier hand on the small of his back. “Are you ready?”

Madara turns and graces his partner in all things with a wry smile.

“Of course,” he scoffs. “What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

Blinking slowly, Tobirama smooths down Madara’s lapels and presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. “You don’t want me to answer that. The seal is laid. All that’s left to do is the final casting.”

He tucks Madara’s hair behind his ear and follows the show of intimacy with another kiss, graciously placed on his cheek this time. The touch of hoarfrost leaves dampness on Madara’s super-heated skin.

Fire and ice.

They’re such opposite extremes on the spectrum of magic and personality alike—it’s amazing they complement each other so well. Even so, Tobirama is being exceedingly doting tonight. Their love language is typically much sharper and filled with far more teeth. 

Madara can’t help but to roll his eyes.

“You want me to do the summoning, don’t you? That’s what this is all about,” Madara sighs, tugging Tobirama flush against him. The twitch of Tobirama’s lips and the narrowing of those vibrant red eyes tells him he’s right.

“Just this once,” Tobirama agrees readily, “I’m not fully recovered and I wouldn’t want the demon to escape its bonds as a result of my…distraction.”

‘Distraction’ his high-mage born ass. For all of his partner’s faults, inattention isn’t one of them.

“That’s a load of basilisk shit and you know it,” he grumbles, shoving Tobirama away by the hips.

Without so much as an apology, Madara whips around in a swirl of robes and stomps down the stairs. The fall of his boots echoes loudly in the largeness of the space. He absently flicks a fire whip about the room, lighting the shriveled remnants of candles in their bracers.

It’s going to take a healthy bit of magic to summon a demon from the lowest levels—a General of the Fold as he recalls from pilfered glances at Tobirama’s notes—and in a hall of antithetical worship no less. For fuck’s sake. The man never does anything by halves. This is going to tear through Madara’s reserves and leave him sucking ash for a week.

“Complete basilisk shit,” he repeats to himself in a voice so acerbic it boils the air.

He sulks his way to the center of the seal and scoops up the haphazard pile of ingredients Tobirama laid out. Powdered relic, a yew wand, and—for some inexplicable reason—a plate of matcha cream daifuku. There’s no point in asking. Instead, he ignores the approach of Tobirama’s near-silent footsteps and toes the offending dessert into the first of eight trigrams. The three bars meant to symbolize heaven gain a mass that’s more felt than seen—like the growing pressure of a storm front.

He snorts at the seal’s responsiveness.

The notes for the summoning itself are written in Tobirama’s ridiculous scrawl on a torn napkin and take some squinting to decipher. He manages it with a little effort, his frustration slightly ameliorated by the simplicity of the summoning. There’s only one ceremonial rite to bowl through, a naming, and a price fulfillment. Insofar as demons go, this one seems to be pretty straight-forward and easygoing.

Still, dessert as a blood price is more than a little asinine. Why Tobirama would ask him to take his place in the circle is beyond him.

Inhaling deeply, Madara calls on the embers of magic in his chest and stokes them until they ignite in a rising field of sparks. The flickering lights set his skin to glowing, a sight Tobirama often likens to watching the trail of a comet coalesce. While usually that kind of poetry would earn his irascible partner at least a discrete handjob during the annual wizard’s conclave, Madara is in no mood to think well of him right now.

He sharpens his teeth on the single line of the beast’s incantation and flicks powdered bone into a cloud, easily seared through with a single bolt of power through the yew wand. “Get your ass up here, Hashirama, you sulfuric bastard,” he says with feeling. The name makes his eyes cross—too many languages all mashed into one for his poor brain to process it fully—so he doesn’t bother using it again, instead opting for ‘idiot’ in his mind. A favor given for sweets…ridiculous.

There’s no dramatic light show.

No whipping wind or evil portents.

One minute he stands alone in the center of eight trigrams, the next there’s a man, broad and achingly handsome in his nudity, snacking on the plate of daifuku. Vines of shadow warp the floor and give rise to the thought that this is far too powerful a darkness to be completely bound in burnished bronze skin and a sun-bright smile.

Madara blanches.

It’s not like Tobirama to underestimate the power of the vessel needed to house a demon.

“Who the hell are you?” Hashirama mumbles through stuffed cheeks, only to catch sight of Tobirama over Madara’s shoulder. He swallows heavily in his haste, coughs until he doubles over, then waves at Tobirama through the tears. “Oh! Hey, Tobi!”

“Hello, Hashirama,” Tobirama replies. He raises a hand to stanch the flow of questions he can see building. “This is Madara, the husband I’ve spoken to you about. He’s emotionally labile, exceedingly mulish, and prone to violence. I ask you to please treat him kindly as I have been bamboozled into caring for him regardless of these failings. As for the summoning, I have need of your forests to locate an appropriate lay line for my new laboratory.”

Hashirama laughs uproariously. “That’s it?”

“That’s all.”

Liquid shadow shudders, lapping at the containment barrier, then overflowing across the church floors after only a brief instance of resistance. “Okay, but it might be a little while. Sometimes it takes a couple of days for my roots to find good lay lines,” Hashirama says, setting down his plate in order to stretch. 

Tobirama nods as he sinks down into seiza just beyond the broken seal. “I understand. My husband is strong and I have need of your direction.”

A steady hiss of steam begins to whistle in Madara’s ears. He thinks it might be coming from him.

Tobirama is going to pay for having made him use such a substantial portion of his power on a demon who’s apparently no more than a glorified compass. Before his growing rage can boil over, a leather satchel bearing the Hiraishin script appears in his hand. The contents are enough to make him deflate and look to Tobirama in confusion.

Food pills and the jar of lubricant he uses on the metal bits of his falcons’ harnesses.

“What’s this for?”

Tobirama shrugs his shoulders and raises an eyebrow. “The sweets were the price to bring Hashirama here, not to keep him on this plane. There are no demons more powerful in all of the realms. As such, the offering must be substantial. You did agree to help.”

At a loss, Madara rolls his hand at the wrist, urging Tobirama to expound.

“He’s an incubus. I figured you’d need it,” Tobirama states dryly.

Madara’s eyes grow wide.

Oh.

Oh, he’s going to _kill_ his husband for this.


	10. Gen- Summoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should never have been like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Gen  
Theme: Summoning  
Rating: T

It should never have been like this.

The chakra gifted to him by his father was a boon from another world—finite and dangerous. It was intended to be used sparingly and with great consideration as to the compounding cost.

While Indra had been miserly at first, he freely admits that jealousy drove him to match his brother jutsu for jutsu. They went so far as to claim the lives of their children for generations to come, simply to feed more and more power down the line and resume the contest long after their original bodies had left them.

Each jutsu drew upon the siphon created between worlds.

Every hand sign brought the hungry otherness that much closer to their realm.

They were always aware of that looming threat, but still, they defied Hagoromo’s edicts in favor of pushing harder. Digging deeper. Besting the other in a contest to become the God of Shinobi.

It had been a selfish mistake and a costly one at that.

Hashirama, Asura’s third iteration, was a truly divine construct of chakra-laced might whose power grew so potent it affected the very nature around them. In that generation, Indra’s brother was the victor—though his victory led to the first taste of darkness. There was something inherently evil in the will of the mokuton, something ancient and far older than even Hagoromo. They had drawn too heavily on the connection between worlds and invited the terror of the void into their hearts.

In a desperate bid to rectify their misstep, Indra abandoned their completion grounds and threw himself onto his brother’s sword with the hope that it would end the vicious cycle. Hashirama committed suicide not long after that, ignorant to the fact that Madara’s death had only been temporary. Indra, while willing to stand down for a time, saw an opportunity as Asura pushed his remaining life force back into the siphon.

The darkness was struck back.

The mokuton faded from existence.

And Madara—Madara was happy to lord over a generation without gods, where the heft of chakric hearts was a pittance of what it used to be.

Free to do as he pleased, Indra allowed Madara’s body to fall into stasis and insinuated his will into yet another generation after that. Sasuke served as a mouthpiece for the burgeoning idea of abolishing the broken shinobi system. Peace, love, and complete commitment to your fellow man.

Without the need for fighting and destruction, the use of chakra would diminish over time. The birth of the beast between worlds would be aborted.

Indra would have complete control of the siphon.

But, of course, his plan would not have the opportunity to be brought to fruition. Sprouting from the seeds on his past, Asura claimed another life for his own and the struggle began anew. 

There was only ever one way for their battle to end. Father never should have trusted them with stewardship over such a power.

Indra knows this now.

He closes his eyes against the sight of his own flesh—arms upraised and wreathed in an evil so dark it consumes—razing the world to the ground.


	11. Madatobi Hashimada- Demons (Part 2 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madara carries out his end of the bargain, but not with grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paring(s): Hashirama/Madara, Madara/Tobirama, suggestion of future HashiMadaTobi  
Theme: Demons  
Rating: E
> 
> Still not horror, but I don't care. It was fun. XD

Somewhere there’s a steaming hot bath drawn up with a generous smattering of menthol salts to set his skin to burning. A scroll on the Treatise of Korto waits as well, begging to be transcribed from the language of the fire elementals into something more palatable for civilians. In this little fantasy world, a tender moment unfolds where hands like hoarfrost brace against his shoulders. They melt to reveal soft, pale skin and a secret smile. A smile that holds the shape of his name, just as his husband’s body houses the heft of his cock.

It’s a pretty imagining.

And one that won’t be happening for a century _at least_ because Tobirama is a damn dirty cheat with the moral compass of a dung heap.

“I’m going to, ah, light you, ahn fire,” Madara pants as he watches the church’s cathedral ceiling rock with each rolling thrust beneath him. Head thrown back, his long hair sweeps the floor between Hashirama’s folded knees. Another particularly lascivious thrust sets him to groaning and scrabbling at the demon’s thickly muscled back.

“You’re doing fine,” Tobirama says absently as he continues to flip through a leather-bound journey book.

As if his lackluster performance is what’s pissing Madara off about this entire situation.

Hashirma’s laugh rises up around them in a tangible wave of power, crashing against and through him. It’s divine. And he would comment on the irony if he weren’t so busy shuddering his way through yet another dry orgasm and screaming his release until his voice fails him for the second time in as many days.

Fuck demons—not literally, metaphorically—and fuck Hashirama in particular. Fuck his stupid smile, and his gorgeous face, and the kindness in his hands because Madara knows he’s a monster no matter how much mind-numbing pleasure he can apparently give a fire mage.

Fuck.

Another couple of jarring thrusts and the demon’s hips stutter, his hands clench, and he finishes in Madara with a veritable flood of spend. It’s searing even to a mage steeped in the might of the fire elementals.

Madara collapses against him and tries to catch his breath. Sweat builds where their skin touches, just as release seeps out from where they remain joined. The lewdness of each soft patter as it drips to the floor has Madara’s ears turning pink. If he had any pride left, he’d be screeching about the mess and trying to cover himself. But, apparently self-respect flew out the window the moment he decided to marry Senju-fucking Tobirama.

“I really like your mate,” Hashirama announces, holding Madara against his chest where he can’t see the glint of amusement in those nightmare eyes. “He’s got spirit.”

There’s a sharp smack that makes Madara choke on a cry.

“And a great ass.”

Tobirama calmly slides the journey book closed in favor of retrieving a canteen from his pack. “Yes, I know,” he acknowledges without hesitation. “I’m rather fond of him myself. But humans don’t use the word ‘mate’ for significant others.”

The statement earns a shrug that jostles Madara’s chin where he lies boneless, nose squashed against Hashirama’s neck. By the flame, he’s never going to walk again.

“Who cares what humans call it. A mate is a mate and I like yours. Interested in a deal?”

“He better not be,” Madara mutters with a voice that cuts out on the third syllable. There’s a sudden and overwhelming curl of power around his throat—old, dark, and terrible, but not particularly hostile.

“Oh, hush, you,” Hashirama whispers into his ear easing their hips a handspan apart and jerking Madara back down with a loud, sodden slap. It’s quite effective in curtailing his next protest.

Clever demon bastard.

Though, apparently Madara needn’t have worried.

“No,” Tobirama snaps, words sharpened on an exhalation of ice. He rises and steps over the ragged edges of the sealing circle with only the slightest hesitation in the click of his heels, gaining confidence when the wards stutter and fail. “Madara is mine. I have claimed him and there will be no deal made to take him from my side.”

A cool hand chases some of the heat from Madara’s cheek. He instinctively leans into the touch and looks up to meet eyes as red as a conflagration. Tobirama’s expression is soft at the edges—the closest he’ll even come to a profession of love—and the water he spills from the canteen onto Madara’s lips goes down with a soothing touch of frost. 

Hashirama watches them, eyes narrowed and oddly intent. “Hmm. You haven’t been home for a while. Maybe a timeshare?”

Sighing, Tobirama reclaims the canteen and smooths away the excess moisture with his thumb. “Fine. I’ll think on it,” he says primly.

That is…absolutely not going to happen. Madara has a myriad of reasons to cut this off at the pass, not the least of which being his sore, likely-broken dick.

“Like Hell you will! I don’t care what this idiot offers you, I’m not shacking up with a demon, Tobirama!”

Hashirama and Tobirama glance down at him, both with eerily similar expressions of surprised amusement and the same dark glint in their eyes. Now that he thinks about it, there’s a striking resemblance in the bone structure of their faces even if their coloring is off—

“Oh, you have got to be fucking _kidding me_.”


	12. Gen- Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: None  
Theme: Mother  
Rating: M
> 
> Alright, folks, this one is supremely fucked up. Warning for graphic violence and reference to attempted spousal rape including an underage character. (The abuser is murdered before anything happens, but I figured I'd warn you regardless.)

Hashirama looks at his hands, bent and twisted into claws. Unrecognizable as his own.

They’re red.

Red, red, red, red.

Congealed blood slips between his fingers and splats against the ground in thick, wet chunks. The oppressive tang of copper is inescapable and for the first time since he was old enough to sheath his sword into a man’s heart, he gags at the smell. That first contraction of his throat sets off a cascade all the way down to his stomach and swallowing the flood of saliva only makes it worse.

With an aborted cry, he falls sideways and expels the meager contents of his stomach in a steadily widening puddle. He flinches instinctively, curls up, but—

It doesn’t matter.

None of this matters.

Worrying about the hand that will fall for having soiled the floorboards is inconsequential when there’s a body doing the same not two paces away.

The body of his wife.

When father informed him of the marriage contract arranged between the Senju and the Uzumaki, Hashirama hadn’t exactly been pleased. He railed and sobbed in turns, throwing Butsuma’s attempts at placation right back in his face. A boy only two years into his teenaged years should be knee-deep in the mire of the battlefield, not considering things like heirs and legitimacy.

Tobirama had tried to step in and curtail some of the damage. It didn’t work. The words of a pre-teen—no matter how logical or coolly delivered—held even less weight than his own at a table meant for men.

Regardless, his very vocal opinion on the subject didn’t change and only grew in volume. His behavior didn’t exactly engender him to his new father in-law and, as such, the wedding itself was a hasty, private affair. All of the finery and silk in the world couldn’t outweigh the ugliness of his perpetual scowl.

His wife was beautiful if you were interested in those things—long red hair and a mature bearing that was really just another way of saying ‘old’. She was nice enough at first. Coddling. She even gave Hashirama her serving of tempura at the feast.

However, things changed as soon as the shoji screen slipped shut behind them.

Hashirama was used to sharing bedding—his brothers did it regularly just to share warmth and enjoy the comfort of touch. But this woman’s touch was nothing like theirs. It was invasive. Crude. Unwanted.

He told her to stop.

_Told her._

Those hideous hands and their disgusting, manicured nails pushed and pulled regardless of his wishes. Stripped him and tried to—

Choking on a sob, Hashirama rolls away from the cloying stench of his tempura-laden vomit and fists his hands into his hair. The pain in his scalp goes unnoticed, so too does the tackiness of blood gluing the long strands to his face and shoulders. The room swims and breath seems hard to come by regardless of how quickly he tries to suck it in.

He’s going to be executed for this. Only fourteen and he’s going to _die_. All because some stupid lady couldn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘no’ and the darkness inside of him couldn’t understand the concept of restraint.

As if summoned by his tears, a curl of mokuton creeps up through the floorboards and strokes his cheek gently. More vines and roots join the first and lift him up, cradling him like a babe. In that moment, he can’t help but picture his mother—so strong, and brave, and gone far too soon.

The floorboards part in a ripple that grows to encompass the woman who thought Hashirama was hers by right, body macerated in her own fluids. Wooden limbs pull the corpse inexorably down.

Though the gaping hole in the floor, into the crawlspace, and further into the ground’s gaping maw.

As the red silk disappears fully, the hole in the floor heals over. Then, all at once, the wooden panels flip over with a sharp snap and it’s as if there was never a crime circumvented by bloodshed in the first place.

The linens revert to the pristine white of virgin cotton.

Desperate claw marks smooth out and leave the furniture as it was when the lumber was first hewn.

He doesn’t know how, but deep in his heart, Hashirama realizes that Butsuma is dead as well—rotting in the earth and bound by a mokuton coffin. The vice grip of fear around his heart gives in increments, lets him find the air his lungs have so desperately been working for. Throughout it all, the mokuton spills its watery payload and washes away the blood and the tears. Leaves dry his body. Rootlets clothe him in a simple linen yukata the color of the forest.

It’s easy simply to relax into the tender care and allow the seeds of hope to bloom in place of fear.

Everything will be okay now.

The mokuton will save him where Tobirama failed.

Dark whispers flit in and out of the range of his hearing, all variations of the same woody voice. 

_“They ran off together, didn’t they? The clan head and the wife he wanted for himself.” _

_“What a shame. The son is likely distraught.”_

_“Made to be head of clan so young and with his dear wife stolen away.” _

_“How awful.”_

_“Terrible.”_

There’s a nightmarish laugh—one that sounds so very much like his mother, but twisted into something strange and deadly.

_“An unforeseeable tragedy.”_


	13. Gen- Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobirama’s strike was never meant to be fatal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: None  
Theme: Eyes  
Rating: M
> 
> Warning for body horror.

His brother is not attractive in his grief.

But, like this—when it’s all performative—he’s as beautiful as a geisha, and his dance equally as scripted.

The quiet, noble tears of a man who is actively losing the only brother left to him.

The bowed head and reverent posture as he reads out from the Scrolls of Passing to ease Izuna’s suffering.

The whine that builds in his chest and comes out as a strangled scream smothered in death bed linens.

It’s such a crock of shit.

Tobirama’s strike was never meant to be fatal. If his rival truly wanted him dead, he would have done the deed with no question as to the outcome. The grinning asshole would have taken his head straight off of his shoulders and turned to face the next foe between heartbeats. Commitment has always been his way.

Just as taking advantage of another opportunity to be an only child is Madara’s.

Izuna scoffs, or he would if he weren’t almost completely immobilized by a well-placed fragment of senbon in his spine. His brother was smart. He slipped it in high enough to cause mortal complications, but not so high for Izuna to need mechanical assistance to breathe. His lungs are filling with a gradual accruement of phlegm and that’s what he’ll ultimately die from. Without control of his abdominals, he can’t clear it.

And so he bares his teeth as he slowly drowns.

The medics mistake his expression for pain when in actuality he’s trying his damnedest to call Madara every deplorable name under Amaterasu’s light. And now there’s talk of taking his eyes for the betterment of the clan. Such an honorable sacrifice.

As honorable as it was the first three times Madara did it.

Izuna thought himself immune to this particular predation on account of pledging his life to his brother’s goals as an advisor, a confidant, and a shield at his back. He should have known better. The texts were wrong. The sharingan doesn’t necessarily evolve under duress or the agony of loss. It can be for any number of reasons as long as the emotion is bright enough to burn. For him, it was grief. For Nii-san, always elation.

Sociopathic bastard.

Izuna really should have predicted this—defected when he had the chance.

The lights in the room dim to something less clinical and more somber. He can feel the chakra signatures leave him lying next to the banked bonfire that is his Nii-san.

“I wish I didn’t have to do this,” Madara says, voice rough and raspy from his playacting. “You were always so dedicated to me.”

A pause. A long, slow exhale.

“But I know that in your dedication you’ll understand why I had to. Hashirama is—well, he won’t be more powerful for long. I’ll destroy him, Otouto. And I’ll slaughter the Senju dog where he stands for what he did to you.”

Izuna wants to thrash and scream until his throat bleeds. Senju didn’t do anything more than serve in his role as Izuna’s foil. They all had parts to play and Tobirama’s was _exemplary_.

“I love you, Izuna,” Madara continues for anyone listening.

There’s a soft pressure against his brows, then a panopoly of lights flashing behind his closed eyelids. 

Soon after, Izuna knows only pain.


	14. MadaGai- Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 'what if' scenario featuring Akatsuki!Gai.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: MadaGai implied  
Theme: Dreams  
Rating: T
> 
> Warning for brief violence towards the end. Additional warning for the purple prose that comes with Gai's POV. XDDD

It’s such a beautiful evening.

The sky is swathed in bands of yellow, gold, and green and the weather has just enough bite to stave off the heat of exertion. He’s thankful that, with the encroaching autumn, his cloak will not succumb to the potent, yet superfluous youth that flows from his pores. It means he can go longer while wearing the mantle of his peaceful ideology.

The red clouds make for a striking image as they bracket the exposed line of his chest. 

Yosh! Even Uchiha Madara’s surly protégé admitted it, once. 

Gai recalls embracing Obito and weeping into his hair for hours that day, overwhelmed by the acknowledgement. And to come from such a bastion of goodness! Truly, he has lived a full, happy life having known such kindness. 

But, even these passionate remembrances pale in comparison to the light of approval in Madara-sama’s eyes across the battlefield.

Gai lets the rigorous burn of felling the Kyuubi settle in his bones as he falls out of stance and meets his idol’s gaze without fear. He’s a strikingly handsome man—dark, soft-featured, and with a body as equally honed for combat as Gai’s own. It’s a potent combination on its own, much less coupled with the deep-seated love and conviction that sets his eyes aglow.

Uchiha Madara—the light-bearer whose name is stamped on his heart. 

A man he would gladly burn out his flame for.

Gai smiles hugely and flashes a hearty thumbs-up that sets Madara to laughing. Even from this distance, his voice is as melodious and deep as his transcendent vision—a world without the pain of loss.

He shakes his head vigorously to clear the rock dust from his hair and takes a bouncing step to rejoin his Sage and savior, only to falter.

“You mon-ster,” the young boy with fox chakra gurgles from the ground, choking on blood and clinging to a life that was never his. A last burst of chakra digs deep into Gai’s ankle—lances of fire and courage. The molten claws scrape against bone and set his nerves ablaze.

It’s only a temporary discomfort when compared to the sweet agony of opening the gates. Still, Madara’s crooked smile is fading and Gai simply can’t abide that. 

“I sincerely apologize, my misguided friend, but Uchiha Madara-sama has claimed all rights to my pain. Though you have fought with the tenacity of the youngest of buds and bloomed in a mighty way, it is now time for your petals to fall and give rise to fruit,” Gai pronounces, eyes soft with sympathy.

The fox itself watches him—a predator recognizing their own—and begins to glow brighter through the seal in the boy’s exposed stomach. The effort is admirable, but it’s well past time for that. The blue mist of the Gate of Wonder gathers around Gai’s sandals.

“It has been the most profound of honors to have met you! I will not remember your face, but I, Maito Gai, son of Maito Dai, and the Great Red Beast of the Akatsuki, shall hold the memory of your youthful courage in my heart!” he declares.

His powerful words have the fox struggling to take over in full, gnashing at the air with steadily growing incisors.

“Move, Narut—!”

As fast as thought, Gai tears his ankle free of the jinchūriki’s grasp and brings it down on the boy’s head. Bone gives with a muffled crack, and the warmth of blood and brain matter sinks into his wraps. They’ll need to be washed now, he thinks. Kakuzu will yell.

All is well, though!

The shark-man won’t begrudge him another well-placed suiton. He too understands that the passions of battle are messy for all that they cleanse the spirit.

Shaking off the worst of the gore, Gai looks to his lodestone, his love, and sets off running, laughing all the while.

They’re one step closer to realizing Madara’s dream—the joyous dream they all share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...because nothing is scarier than Gai with a skewed moral compass.


	15. Hashimada, TobiIzu- Banshee (Part 1 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madara’s is the first song he ever hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Hashimada and eventual TobiIzu  
Theme: Banshee  
Rating: M
> 
> Warnings for brief character death (he got bett'r) and associated grief

Madara’s is the first song he ever hears.

It’s a long, haunting dirge that makes the air resonate until it burns. Being nine with a maturity and bearing far past his years, Tobirama gathers the implements of his craft and sets to work that night. He watches the banshee braid Hashirama’s hair and lift the plait to his cheek, his nose, his lips, with his brother none the wiser. The night grows long, filled with those unrequited affections—chaste touches that Madara thinks have no witnesses.

They all sit in companionable silence—silent but for the song—while Tobirama calmly goes about planning how to tear asunder the fabric of reality. 

When the sun crests the mountaintops the following morning, Madara gathers his skirts and strokes the line of Hashirama’s jaw. He leans down to place a sweet kiss on his forehead—a melancholy ‘goodbye’—then rapidly fades into the first rays of dawn, taking his song with him.

Tobirama returns the favor and ignores him completely.

His eyes burn and his back aches, but nothing can stop his mind from racing to a solution. His brother will die today. Fate is not a thread he can mend. His studies, though, open the possibility of gathering those frayed edges and tying them to something new—something ancient.

The banshee’s song rings true some hours later.

When the sun sets again, Madara chases the coattails of the last orange dusting of sky and settles into the encroaching night. His footsteps float, immersed in the trail of gauzy skirts as they are. Tobirama has no time for his mourning and shoots the banshee a baleful glare from where he gathers his brother’s cold body close. His awareness garners a raised eyebrow, but he’s far past pretending he can’t see their world.

He was born to it.

Snorting in derision, Tobirama shifts Hashirama more fully onto his lap and tries to maneuver his arms over his shoulders. This should be easier—in death, Hashirama is heavier and far more cumbersome than he ever was in life. Bodies are ungainly things.

He persists and finally manages to get them situated where his arms are free to work, a chilled face pressed against his neck. He flashes through the first few signs of a katon jutsu, then molds them seamlessly into suiton and doton jutsus as well. Chakra serves as a spark to ignite the sigils of blood on the floor of their shared bedroom with its one futon pressed off to the side.

Madara flashes forward in a series of still images and tries to intercede, arm outstretched. It’s too late, though. Tobirama will not lose his last brother to something so inconsequential as the Shinigami’s will. The lines of blood gain density as they draw from the gaping cavern in his brother’s chest.

A hoof-strike of all things. Not a sword, not a jutsu from a more skilled foe—a war-bred animal.

Time stops and the space around them hums. For a moment, Tobirama’s breath is arrested in his chest. There’s a great sucking pull that threatens to tear his soul from his body, then a push so powerful it bowls him over.

The floor slams into his elbows and his head smacks with a jarring crack soon after. Hashirama’s larger body sprawls over him, so thick and long, even at fourteen, that he’s trapped in a cage of frigid limbs. Exposed ribs stab into his chest where his heart races like a rabbit’s. Even so, it’s not the pain that makes his eyes burn and the ceiling waver.

He’s failed.

His brother is dead.

The only silver lining in all of this is that the banshee begins to back away finally.

It was a hasty, hubristic plan—offering his own life up in service to a power whose name has been lost to time. All Tobirama had to go on was a single symbol from a death-text that was thought to have been destroyed three centuries prior. As if a single life—his, no less—would be so valuable as to raise a primordial god who predated the Shinigami.

He’s young, not stupid. Still, he had hoped. With all of the strength left to him, he had hoped.

Tears break free and flow over his cheeks, coming faster and faster as sobs begin to wrack his body. His head hurts where he hit it. There’s probably blood, though it’s not like adding a little more will matter with the nightmarish scene he’s already made of their floor.

But it does.

There’s a pressure to the air that grows steadily enough not to be noticed at first. Tobirama cries until his chest hitches and his eyes swell nearly shut. He wishes there was a banshee singing for him, because there’s no point in trying anymore if his brother is well and truly gone.

“Shh, Otouto. It’s okay,” familiar lips murmur against his neck. “You did good. So good! My smart—”

A kiss.

“Sweet—”

Another. 

“Precious little otouto.”

Tobirama freezes. “A—Anija?” It worked. It actually worked.

He latches onto his brother and holds him as powerfully as he can with a body ill-suited for strength. Fingers like claws dig into Hashirama’s haori and hair, pull him in tight as if they could possibly get any closer, any more tangled than they already are. It _worked_. Itworkeditworkeditworkeditworked.

“Anija,” he repeats with more certainty, sobbing once again. Father told him never to show emotion in front of others, but if anyone deserves to see the unmitigated love and joy in his heart, it’s his brother.

His _living_ brother.

“I love you so much, Tobi. You have no idea,” Hashirama says softly as he pets Tobirama’s hair.

There’s another stuttering snuffle and Tobirama finally eases his grip. “And I you.”

Everything will be fine now. Hashirama has returned from the one place people were never meant to leave and Tobirama has his reason for living back. Laws of nature be damned, sometimes fate just doesn’t_ understand_.

“Come-on. We should get up and get this mess cleaned before Butsuma throws a fit,” Hashirama finally announces.

It’s hard for Tobirama to let him pull back, even harder when he’s not sure what he’s going to find when he opens his eyes. Hashirama was right, though. It’s all okay. The face between his palms is the same warm brown skin split by a smile so wide it makes his eyes crinkle. And what eyes. There’s a darkness to the sclera that wasn’t there before, so black that it makes Hashirama’s brown eyes seem to glow.

Tobirama sits up with his brother’s help. He touches their foreheads together and laughs until it hurts. Laughs until he’s giddy with it. Hashirama crushes him against his chest—whole with all of his viscera back where it should be—in another bracing hug.

It’s a beautiful moment where he has his brother’s regard all to himself and one Tobirama wants to stretch on for eternity. A child’s selfish dream and one that can’t last.

“Oh. Hey, Madara!” Hashirama chirps, wriggling his fingers towards the corner of the room in a friendly wave.

The banshee blanches. He shifts his weight until his lips turn down with firm resolve and returns the wave with a sharp nod. “Hello,” he hesitates, mouthing at the air then settling on “Hashirama.”

Hashirama’s smile only grows.

He inhales to say something more, then bows forward as he begins choking wetly.

Foaming spittle drips pours from his lips, flowing down the folds of Tobirama’s kimono and spattering the floor in noxious, yellow puddles. Some distant part of Tobirama’s mind realizes it’s the fluid they had used to arrest any further decomposition before funeral rites could be had. It should disgust him, but it doesn’t.

This is Hashirama, his brother, and he will accept every aspect of him with open arms and a heart fit to bursting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...little Hashirama has a god that predates death holed up in there now. How's that for a Cracker Jack surprise? lol


	16. MadaTobi- time travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I suppose we’ll just have to try this again, Uchiha.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Madara/Tobirama  
Theme: Time travel  
Rating: T

“I suppose we’ll just have to try this again, Uchiha.”

Madara hisses between his teeth and shields his eyes as the flash of brilliance overwhelms him.

Leave it to that crafty bastard to have one more trick in his arsenal. Even in the throes of a more final death than the first, Senju Tobirama can’t lie down like the dog he is and pass quietly.

Instead he bows—a particularly sarcastic penitent—and allows the seals on his skin to flow out like a swollen river cresting its banks. White capped and vicious.

Wind buffets Madara’s bare chest, sweeping his hair out behind him to flap violently in the gale. His black chakra rods explode from their moors in the Senju’s animated corpse and go sailing past with such velocity that he barely dodges in time. This show of insolence will not stall the onset of his dream of peace, but Hashirama’s brother will forever gall him with his sly grin and the defiance in those Sharingan-red eyes.

He wants to tear them out. 

Make him retch and quail in agony the way Izuna had.

However, that’s a pleasure that will come when the Infinite Tsukuyomi is in full effect—when Madara can realize his vengeance over and over again until satiation finally washes the brown stains of his brother’s blood from his hands.

Yellow light flashes from the epicenter of the seal, lashing up dirt and debris. Static crackles and ozone lends a weight to the air around them. Instinct and chakra drive his evasions into something only a hairsbreadth faster than the lightning Tobirama calls down at its epicenter.

He laughs. At least the Senju’s swan song has bite. 

After only a matter of seconds, the seal expands to lick at Madara’s toes, then contracts so powerfully the air implodes and brings him to his knees in the aftermath. Rock crumbles beneath his palms from the force of it.

There’s a brief sensation of otherness—a twist in the fabric of reality—and when the clouds thin, Tobirama is gone.

In his place, a wide-eyed young man desperately scrambles to his feet, sleeping yukata wrinkled in places and as haphazard as his hair. He whips around and takes stock of his surroundings, tension evident in the slight tremor of his long, pale legs.

Observing silently, Madara settles into a crouch and waits to be noticed, teeth bared and chakra rod in hand. Poised and ready to strike.

The blow never falls.

Turning to the sound of scraping sandals, the man zeroes in on him and the expression of relief that softens his eyes and sets him reaching out in supplication stays Madara’s hand.

“Koibito,” Tobirama’s doppleganger whispers, flowing down to wrap Madara in an embrace that speaks of easy familiarity. “Sage’s balls, Madara, what happened? Where are we?”

Not ‘Uchiha’, not ‘that walking atrocity’—Madara. His name. And spoken with such tender regard that he wonders if the moon’s eye has already pulled him under.

Madara blinks slowly and reabsorbs the black chakra into his fist. It gives him pause to see Tobirama looking so_ young_—so scared.

Because that’s what this is. Fear. Fear that drives slender arms to wrap around his neck as Tobirama hides his face beneath Madara’s strong jawline.

This reeks of Senju Tobirama’s machinations. _His_ Tobirama—the thrice-cursed asshole who aborted any possibility of happiness in Madara’s life—not this trembling child in his arms. 

Hashirama had always bemoaned his brother’s propensity for toying with the laws of nature, resurrection not the least of what that monster was capable of. Adulterating space was a favored pursuit. And if what Madara is quickly growing to suspect is true, it would appear time was not outside of his purview either. Or other realities, perhaps?

Madara holds Tobirama close and sweeps his palm over the blazing Uchiwa on his back, face slowly splitting into a grin.

Oh. Vengeance is going to be more satisfying than he could ever have imagined. He’ll initiate the Infinite Tsukuyomi first, but then…

This version of the White Demon is absolutely _precious_, and Madara can’t wait to watch that light fade—that heart crack—when he breaks him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tobirama keeps jumping through realities until he gets it right, but what happens to all of those alternate selves that he displaces along the way?


	17. Hashimada, eventual TobiIzu- Banshee (Part 2 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s the only one that can hear them, Tobirama thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing(s): Hashirama/Madara, Tobirama/Izuna  
Theme: Banshee  
Rating: T
> 
> There will be one more "banshee" part after this.

He’s the only one that can hear them, he thinks.

The banshees.

Ever since that fateful evening he sacrificed everything of himself to bring Hashirama back, Tobirama hasn’t spent a single night without being lulled to sleep by the long, lamenting wails that float out over the rice paddies. Even now, some eleven years later, they persist. Sometimes he’ll go to them—mud squishing up between his toes as the rice stalks pull at the trailing ends of his yukata. They’re unerringly beautiful and if he pretends that he can’t see them, they’ll dance around him with swirling skirts until the sun rises.

There’s one that watches him knowingly and strokes his arms or the exposed v of his chest just to make him flinch, but nothing ever comes of it. The banshee never calls attention to Tobirama’s ruse, so he maintains his façade and pursues his late-night dance every chance he gets.

It’s a pleasant reprieve from the rigors of living and one Hashirama allows now and again with a fond smile and a shake of his head. Those are the nights Madara slips from the fold and, glancing at Tobirama almost guiltily, disappears into the darkness to take up Hashirama’s hand in the home he and his Anija share.

As children, Tobirama would have been jealous of the unfurling attraction between them. But now—now he finds his brother’s distraction to be a relief. There’s an intensity to his regard that overwhelms.

When Hashirama returned from the dead, he came back different. Older. Or perhaps more sharp in his treatment of the world around him. Tobirama doesn’t know precisely what changed, all he knows is that his brother is possessive in ways he hadn’t been before. Doting and loving, yes, but there was never this dark undercurrent or desire to possess. Their house is built on a foundation of bodies—those who were foolish enough to question Hashirama’s sudden rise to clan head—and the mortar is comprised of the bones of the men and women who thought they had the right to touch Tobirama, even chastely.

He learned very early on to affect a flat façade and build a reputation as a pillar of ice for the continued longevity of the people around him. Hashirama continues to find great joy in watching him playact in public, and even greater satisfaction in being the only one allowed to scoop Tobirama up into his arms, which he does with regularity.

Their affections look for all the world like two brothers raised together, reassuring in their normalcy even if there are whispers of an almost unnatural codependency. Tobirama ignores the trails of gossip. They’re right, after all. He belongs to Hashirama and his Anija is devoted to him as well, in his own way.

His brother is the sun, full of bright laughter and succor even if it’s only surface deep. He’s an easy man to love. 

Madara knows this as well.

“There’s no need to sneak around, he knows you’re here,” Tobirama drawls as he lashes his sandals on with perhaps a bit too much haste. The moon is high and the song has begun in earnest. He’s eager to escape his brother’s attention and go dance.

There’s an unnecessary inhale—a holdover from a life long since abandoned—and Madara coalesces from the mist. His filmy skirts blow about in a nonexistent wind, hair a wavering line of shadow at his back. “He wasn’t the one I was trying to avoid,” he says dryly, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

Tobirama snorts. He’ll never know where this animosity between them came from. Perhaps the banshee took offence to having his song made impotent eleven years ago. Maybe Madara is simply jealous of Tobirama’s position at his brother’s side, though the nature of their respective relationships is vastly different.

Whatever the reason, it’s strange.

“A lackluster attempt. You’ll have to learn your craft better,” he replies primly. “Goodnight, banshee.” The rice paddies will dry up and the sun itself will wither before Tobirama gives him the courtesy of using his name.

Madara’s face performs a series of gymnastics before settling in a frown so deep it threatens the integrity of his chin. It’s one of three expressions Tobirama is most familiar with directed at his person, the others being frothing rage and a fleeting softness that he only ever catches in his periphery. He never knows what to do with the last one, so he pretends not to see it at all. Madara reaches out to him as he rises and leaps down from the engawa with an urgency to his step. The motion is so hauntingly familiar that it draws Tobirama up short, makes him whip around with wide eyes. The banshee had that same touch of panic when he had tried to stop the ritual from igniting so long ago. He half expects to look down and find Hashirama’s corpse collapsed against his chest in a wash of gore and death-magic. Then, a new horror fills him.

For one brief instance, he’s terrified that Madara will touch him.

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses instinctively, thinking of the lives lost to comprise his home, the rictus grins in every knothole of the floorboard, the unnatural glow in his Anija’s eyes when he says it’s all to protect his sweet Otouto.

The outstretched hand never makes contact. It hovers, fading in and out of being until Madara curls his fingers and lets his arm fall.

“Stay out as long as you like,” he announces apropos of nothing and flashes away in a burst of leaves and a wind whose chill is more metaphysical than somatic. 

Tobirama watches the leaves settle and notes the shift of the oaken struts between the shoji screens as they interlace over the delicate rice paper like the teeth of a trap. This has been a genuinely bizarre evening, and one he'll have to dissect later.

For now, he has a dance to join.


	18. MadaTobi- Amputation (Part 1 of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never let it be said that Tobirama does not love his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Madara/Tobirama  
Theme: Amputation  
Rating: T
> 
> Warnings apply to the next chapter. There's nothing graphic in this one, only a mild implication of things to come.

“There’s no honor in this.”

Tobirama flinches, but refuses to look away from the condemnation etched in his brother’s face. Throughout the day Hashirama will don a myriad of false masks—each finely painted to portray a single doll-like emotion—but he knows this one to be true. It’s in the way his brother’s voice falls flat, the fury with which his chakra writhes and lashes at the boundaries of his shadow. There will be no coming back from this, Tobirama knows. His welfare will always fall second to Madara’s desires in Hashirama’s regard.

“I know,” he states simply. No ‘Anija’, no appellation to remind him that they are bound by blood where the Uchiha isn’t.

His seemingly glib reply sets Hashirama to pacing a vicious track behind his desk, pulling at his pauldrons and setting his hair swinging in his wake. Tobirama looks to the line of honed kunai on the desk between them as they glint with fresh oil in the lamplight. His brother always did like to have his weapons sharp yet impotent when not settled in his hand. 

“You nearly killed Madara’s brother today, Tobirama,” Hashirama snaps, sharpening his ire on Tobirama’s name. “You know the dream Madara and I share, how fragile things have been. You may as well have struck me down in his place.” His violent gesticulations cause strangle vine to sprout from the girders overhead.

Tobirama briefly glances up, then settles his attention on Hashirama, eyes narrowed and a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “While the nature of the strike lacked honor, my blade only grazed Izuna. It was nothing worse than a sparring accident. He’ll recover with no further consequence,” he objects. As soon as the words leave his mouth he knows he’s misstepped. It’s not the severity of the wound that has his brother struggling to stay his hand, it’s the fact that Tobirama acted without command. He went on the offensive of his own volition when he should have bowed before Uchiha Izuna and taken the blow.

This is another thing he knows. Amazing how he can have such an intimate understanding of the breadth of this man’s character and still manage to destroy every bond between them without even trying.

“Get out.” The command is a quiet, dangerous thing. “I don’t want your opinions. I want to be able to trust your sword arm to protect our dream. If I can’t rely on you for that, I want you out.”

_Our dream. _

His and Madara’s.

Tobirama nods once and turns without further argument. There’s no point to it. He sweeps out of the room with an odd tremor in his legs—the aftereffects of the adrenaline he stopped feeling on the battlefield when he was a child.

If his sword arm is what Hashirama desires without the mind and the body that goes along with it, the arm is what he shall have.

Never let it be said that Tobirama does not love his brother.


	19. Hashimada and TobiIzu- Banshee (Part 3 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The melodies are never the same twice, and Tobirama wants to hear them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paring(s): Hashirama/Madara, Tobirama/Izuna  
Theme: Banshee  
Rating: T
> 
> Part 3 of 3.

The night is as long and joyous as all that have come before—dancing to a tune made by two dozen voices, powerful when alone, absolutely staggering when upraised in concert. The melodies are never the same twice, and Tobirama wants to hear them all.

He throws his head back—arms outstretched—and joins his steps to the beat of the rhythm. Sweat flies from his hair as he spins, slowly at first, then gaining in momentum. Faster and faster until the freneticism takes up roost in his chest. He is a conduit of the night and the stars guide his feet as the moon bears witness.

Nothing has ever felt so natural. So right.

He loses all track of time and forgets the anxieties that dog his heels. Here there is no need to be aloof, no tedious political affairs to navigate, no voracious Anija to reign in—there’s only the music in his soul, the press of otherworldly bodies, and a familiar pair of hands growing bold enough to settle on his hips and lead him through it all. 

Tobirama feigns ignorance as he always does, but this banshee—the one with the starlight smile and hair like a comet trail—pushes in close and finally breaks the barrier between them.

“So, when are you going to stop playing hard to get?” he asks, all sharp humor and clever tongue.

This isn’t the first time he’s spoken to Tobirama. All of the prior instances were pointed attempts to garner a reaction. Lewd comments, imaginings regarding his prowess. Things of that nature. A consummate shinobi, Tobirama never fell for his ploy, simply swirled and swayed in the wake of gauzy skirts and reveled in the alien touch of someone who wasn’t his brother.

This time is no exception. Tobirama rolls his arms from shoulder to wrist and uses the motion as an excuse to settle them on his partner’s shoulders. He crosses his wrists and undulates his fingers to feel the silky softness of the banshee’s hair as it spins in a wave around them.

A rising crescendo makes his heart ache as his feet keep pace and kick up splashes of mud. In a strange way, Tobirama will always be in Madara’s debt for gracing him with this ability to hear the songs, to share touches and unreciprocated passions here under the mantle of night, far away from Hashirama’s prying eyes. For all that the irascible banshee seems to hate him, he’s been nothing but gracious in his gift giving.

“Hey,” his dance partner whispers once the music crests and eases into a more sedate melody. Fingers tease at the edges of his obi. “You can’t ignore me forever, Tobirama.”

For the first time in years, the use of his name garners an unintended reaction, makes his stomach clench and his shoulders tense. Tobirama instinctually snaps his head down to meet the banshee’s gaze—eyes wide and lips parted in surprise. A stare as black as Hashirama’s own devours the moonlight reflecting off of Tobirama’s pale skin.

“Ah, there he is, my lovely Snowflake,” the banshee croons, tone so saccharine sweet that Tobirama can all but taste it. “It’s about time you stopped being a little shit.”

“Excuse me?” Tobirama hisses in mild affront. The pressure on his hips steadily increases, turns bruising before settling back to something more suited to the intimacy of dancing.

“You heard me. If you can afford Madara the courtesy of a little conversation every now and again, you can at least stop pretending I don’t exist. You could even say my name once or twice. Crazy, right? Here, I’ll even help,” the banshee says as he licks his lips and presses the tip of his index finger and thumb into the corners of Tobirama’s mouth, ephemeral skin tasting like menthol.

“I—” he says, spreading his fingers and emphasizing the long e.

“Zu—” Those chilled fingers contract, pushing Tobirama’s lips into a pucker.

“Na.” On the last syllable, his hand falls away only to be replaced by the ghost of spearmint breath. For a brief instance, Tobirama thinks he’s about to be given his first kiss, but the moment passes and Izuna pulls back with an all too clever grin.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’ve known you would be able to see me since I sang for your monster of a brother.”

Tobirama stops abruptly and stands tall at the edge of the rice paddy, regal and settled deep in his power despite the spectacle of his threadbare yukata and the spatter of mud up to his thighs. Izuna doesn’t bother to give him space or time to process. Instead, he eases Tobirama’s hands down—unresisting—to settle on his waist and smooths his palms up the exposed v of Tobirama’s chest.

Around them, the song evolves again into a more traditional funeral dirge, sensing his disquiet.

“_Madara_ sang for my brother,” Tobirama corrects, eyes narrowed and enunciating the words slowly as if uncertain. Something about his manner makes the banshee snort in derision.

Izuna tilts his head down and smirks up at Tobirama from beneath long lashes. “Oh, no, Snowflake. Madara’s song was for you.”

He sidles forward until their bodies press flush and laces his fingers behind Tobirama’s neck, taking liberties where no one has been able to on account of Hashirama’s influence. Tobirama shivers under the touch, grasps Izuna by the waist and holds him tight. “Explain,” he snarls, though it lacks bite.

Laughing, Izuna dusts a line of feather-soft kisses along Tobirama’s jaw and goes up on his toes to better share the secret between them.

“You were the one who died eleven years ago. Remember that little bump to the noggin? No, I sang for Hashirama when he was stillborn, but your mother just couldn’t let go. Seems to be a family trait, hmm? She made all kinds of deals with the darkness and promised the second son of her body in tribute,” he says, tracing the tracks of red down a pale chin and cheeks. “That’s why you can see us. You were _promised _to us. But then you had to go screw things over and wake up the thing that was dormant in your stupid golem of a brother for no good reason. And now we don’t get to keep you because your dumb ass was reanimated and claimed by a god from the before times. How’s that for a fairy tale ending?”

It’s too much.

None of this makes sense.

Tobirama stands frozen and looks off into the distance as his mind races to explore different connections between the pieces that he knows to be fact. Nothing adds up, but Izuna’s words have the ring of truth. It’s not in a banshee’s nature to lie.

“I died?” is what he finally settles on.

“You did. And now you’re back,” Izuna murmurs, taking advantage of Tobirama’s preoccupied thoughts to steal a kiss.

It’s a chaste press of lips with only the barest suggestion of more—nothing as untoward as the places those hands have wandered tonight—and the chill of his tongue lingers well after he settles back onto his heels.

Blinking quickly, Tobirama looks down as if waking from a daze. “Hashirama is going to destroy you,” he says, mind rallying to a topic that he at least has some expertise in. He’ll pursue verification of the banshee’s story in the morning, see if Madara’s answers corroborate those claims. For now he can only warn Izuna of his impending unmaking.

“Oh, the old one doesn’t care about us,” Izuna drawls, running his palms down the length of Tobirama’s arms and interlacing their fingers. “It just hates humans. Thinks they’re usurpers.”

“Usurpers of what?”

Izuna laughs, the sound as light as the tinkling of mourning chimes.

“Who knows.”


	20. Madatobi- Kelpie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in his life, Tobirama knows true, bone-deep fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Madara/Tobirama  
Theme: Kelpie  
Rating: M
> 
> Warning for a graphic belly wound. 
> 
> This is part of a larger AU that I made for Madatobi week and never got around to fleshing out.

<https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/post/186844629402/madatobi-week-2019-day-4-august-7th-marriage-of>

Thunder is a loud and rhythmic constant, so powerful it slams through Tobirama’s chest and leaves him breathless. There are four beats to it, two that jolt him forward until he suffocates, then two that pull him back until the wound in his abdomen gapes wide. He’s not sure which he prefers, choking for breath or having to feel the gush of his lifeblood leaving him. 

He tries to push up, but even if his feeble strength could manage it, he appears to be stuck tight to whatever great beast rocks under him. The fur is short and coarse in the way of most livestock. However, the rich, earthy smell that usually accompanies their coats is conspicuously absent. Under the metallic tang of his own blood there’s a subtle scent—clear as the water that flows through the Naka and twice as sobering.

Kelpie. That’s what this is. A voracious thing that devours with impunity.

The jolts resolve into hoofbeats and clarity sets Tobirama to panicking. They have a contract, the Senju and the powers that rule the waterways. Any human to fall by another human’s hand is left on the battlefield to be collected and devoured by the kelpies, the each-uisage, the rusalka, any of a long line of creatures with a taste for flesh. In return, the active hunts are no longer sanctioned on either side. It’s an agreement that has held strong for centuries…until now.

Gritting his teeth, Tobirama curls his head down just enough to slide the happuri up off of his eyes. A dark coat gleams wetly against his cheek and the world rushes by in streaks of green and black. He doesn’t have long to go before they’ll be splashing headlong into the Naka. 

It takes a full minute of agony to wrench his hands from his gloves, to unmoor them from the tackiness of the kelpie’s skin. Every shift makes his spilled belly squelch in an unsettling manner. Luckily the pain is a distant burning by this point, a displaced agony that's no longer quiet so sharp. With his arms mostly free, he manages to flash through a familiar series of hand signs, rote and ingrained with how often he calls on them. Iryo ninjutsu flows through his chakra coils and illuminates the dark forest around them in a burst of green light so bright the kelpie’s gallop falters. The jarring stumble hurts—everything hurts—but Tobirama perseveres.

Viscera knits back together with alacrity. The clean edges of the slice ease into each other and rise up in a long, mountainous chain of keloids. Water from the air perfuses his body to replace the blood he spilled.

While it’s not the best work he’s ever managed, it will do. He’s alive at least. Whether he stays that way is another problem altogether.

The massive back pressed to his chest and stomach bulges as the kelpie gathers his hindquarters beneath him in a sliding stop so powerful it uproots trees. The strange adhesive gives all at once and sends Tobirama flying over the kelpie’s withers to slam into the ground and roll to an abrupt stop against the knees of a cypress stump.

He groans, pushing up once his head stops spinning to look upon the creature he’s only heard stories about.

The stallion is not overly tall at the withers, but he’s as staunch and muscular as a draft horse with the light of hellfire in his eyes. There’s an otherness to his composition—too many joints, too thick of lines. It’s as if someone took a snapshot of a horse from below the surface of a lake and tried to emulate it.

He tosses his head and gnaws at the air with a mouth split wide all the way down to the hinge.

Even with his suiton nature, Tobirama knows he’s no match.

“You couldn’t just fucking die, could you?” the stallion screeches in a series of shrill sounds that can only barely be puzzled into words. “Had to steal my dinner right from my mouth. Well, maybe I’ll just eat you anyways, It’s not like anyone would know.” Snapping his jaws, the kelpie paws a gouge into the ground with a hoof the size of a dinner plate.

Tobirama blanches and scuttles back through the outer band of cypress knees, eyes wide and nostrils flared. “The contract,” he manages to choke out. Maybe the reminder of the law that governs them will take the dangerous gleam out of the kelpie’s eye. It’s a long shot. One born of desperation.

The beast scoffs at that—a low, grunting huff that sets the air to smelling like brine. “Yes, the contract. Don’t tell me about the stupid, thrice-cursed contract, boy. I’m the one who signed the stupid thing in the first place.”

For the first time in his life, Tobirama knows true, bone-deep fear.

Not a kelpie, then.

This is the each-uisage, Uchiha Madara.

The monster who rules them all.


	21. Madatobi- Amputation (Part 2 of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a moment, he will no longer be Senju Tobirama, son of Senju Butsuma, and second in command of the Senju clan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Madara/Tobirama  
Theme: Amputation  
Rating: M
> 
> Warning for all of the experiences that go along with removing an arm.

“Would you like to experience the pain, or should I block it?”

Tobirama looks up at his clone and purses his lips in consideration. “No,” he finally says, “I’ve had enough pain for one day, I think.” His clone nods and returns to the task of disinfecting his bicep and preparing for surgery.

It’s not that he’s a coward. He has many unflattering appellations—an emotionless beast, a piss poor sibling, a smear on the honor of the Senju name—but ‘coward’ is not one of them. It’s just that Hashirama’s condemnation still batters at his heart and weighs heavy enough that any more agony will likely break him. That final rending is not his to take. The choice to destroy him completely lies with another, and as soon as he is done here, he will march to the border and give Uchiha Madara that last key to his unmaking.

There are three scrolls packed away in a small leather satchel, each with a different path to peace delineated in his sharp, angular hand. His Anija will have the dream he’s always wanted and Tobirama’s sword arm to serve him as he pleases—be it as decoration or an allegorical warning to incoming clans. And Tobirama will have…well, that will vary depending on which of the three paths the Uchiha clan head chooses. If any. There’s always the chance that the scouts will waylay him before he can offer his complete and utter capitulation to Madara, ‘do not engage’ order or no. 

“We’re ready,” the clone announces as he blots at the last white patch of skin visible through the wash of iodine. “Is there anything you must do before I remove the limb? Once it’s done, you won’t be able to fashion hand signs.”

They’re both aware. Tobirama doesn’t know why he bothers to state the obvious.

“Do it,” he replies shortly. In a moment, he will no longer be Senju Tobirama, son of Senju Butsuma, and second in command of the Senju clan. Instead, he will be a specter of the man he once was and more powerful for it. His sacrifice will prove his love and fealty to his brother or it won’t. Either way, he’ll have tried.

“Very well.”

The first cut is painless—nothing more than an initial pressure just below the tourniquet, a sudden give, and warmth seeping under his shoulder and down his side. Tobirama lies motionless on the stretch of animal hide and watches slips of sunlight dance amongst the leaves behind the shoji screens.

It’s beautiful. Soft. Things he has never been.

He knows when his clone hits bone. There’s a jolt of pain where the Iryo ninjutsu failed to deaden the nerve complex fully. Hissing, he grits his teeth and narrows his eyes only to receive a baleful glance in turn. A subtle burst of chakra and the pain fades as if it had never been there.

His clone’s deft hands finish cutting through the flesh and begin to probe into the schism to palpate precisely where the bone falls. There’s the telltale scrape of metal being brought to bear, then a sound not unlike sawing lumber. It’s thicker, more wet, but close enough to make Tobirama smile.

He doesn’t think Hashirama would appreciate the joke.

His body rocks under the force of the bone saw, first up, then down as far as the skin of his back allows on each rhythmic stroke. It takes longer than he would have imagined to finally make it through. When it does, he feels as if a weight has been lifted. No name, no future, no expectations. Wind blows the silhouettes of leaves into a checkered wave of shadow and light across the rice paper and he’s happy to note a warm flush of satisfaction.

His life now only exists in the moment and this one is sublime.

There’s shuffling off to his right as his clone cleans the area and prepares his amputated limb to be delivered to his brother the following morning. He returns soon enough and kneels back down onto the floor, knees hitting with a jarring thump.

“The surgery went well. Now, I’ll need to shape the residual limb,” he narrates for his own benefit more than Tobirama’s. Before the words fade, the pressure is back on Tobirama’s arm. He refuses to watch, but he’s well aware of the way his clone is rounding off the spurs of bone, filing them down to then pull muscle over the cap and bind it all with stretched skin. There won’t be any scars, he’s too good at his craft for that. It will be one smooth stub of an appendage—pale and pristine as if his sword arm and his standing as a shinobi were never his own. And they weren’t. Not really.

Another hour passes if the quality of the sunlight is anything to go by, then the tourniquet is released and an additional burst of chakra is applied to destroy whatever lactic acid built up in the process.

When Senju Tobirama sits up, he’s free. 

There’s a weightlessness to his chest that has little to do with the loss of flesh on his right.

“Thank you,” he whispers breathlessly.

His clone nods and gifts him with an equally unencumbered smile. “We did well. Go bathe. When you return, I will have your things ready to travel.”

Tobirama staggers to his feet, not yet used to the shifting of his center of gravity. With a supporting hand under his arm, he finds a tentative balance and goes to perform his ablutions. It will take some time to get used to the asymmetry. He manages well enough, considering.

Washing his body is ritualistic and simple despite having only one arm to handle the bucket and soaps. Preparing himself as a man expecting to be taken by another is harder, that difficulty having nothing to do with his singular limb. Still, he will not be found wanting on any of the three paths Madara chooses.

His death, his servitude, or his role in a marriage bed—he will perform his duty with the same steadfast determination he always has. When the last bucket of water is emptied, he dries himself perfunctorily and returns to his room to be attended.

Without asking, his clone helps him into a thin, cotton yukata of a blue so rich it stands out in stark contrast against his pale thighs. It makes no sense to waste any more fabric on a body that will be destroyed or laid bare within a day’s time. Inhaling deeply, Tobirama takes in one last lungful of the scent of home, and picks up his satchel.

“Do not stay any longer than you must,” he warns the clone. “Deliver the arm to Anija and disburse immediately. I cannot afford to be swayed.”

“Of course. I understand.”

He doesn’t wish himself good luck—he’s not so self-absorbed as that—but it’s a near thing.


	22. MadaTobi- Amputation (Part 3 of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He never intended for his capitulation to become such a spectacle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Madara/Tobirama  
Theme: Amputation  
Rating: M
> 
> Warnings for...hell if I know how to tag. Shinobi abelism? Tobirama making poor life decisions?

Not having been Madara’s match on the field, what Tobirama knows of him consists of anecdotes and stolen glances from half a league away. The clan head is shorter than he remembers. Even so, he’s broad in the same way that Anija is—built for strength and endurance—and holds himself with natural poise. There’s no questioning that he’s a consummate shinobi. Everything about him is honed for it.

“Nii-san,” Izuna calls out as soon as his brother comes to a stop before them. He grabs Madara’s sleeve and looks to him with tension in his shoulders and Sharingan activated. “This isn’t my doing,” he hisses under his breath.

If not for the tenuousness of the situation, Tobirama would laugh. Of course his crippling isn’t Izuna’s to claim. His rival is immensely powerful and has come close to killing him more times than he can count, but taking an arm requires a greater cruelty than he’s ever shown. Izuna has only ever offered him a quick, clean death. Cunning machinations aside, the man has too much honor to sentence his opponents to a half-life.

That purview is Tobirama’s alone.

“What’s not your—” Madara begins, brow furrowed, only to look over his brother’s shoulder and finally take in the situation in its entirety. “Oh.”

Tobirama knows he’s inadvertently made quite the scene—kneeling on the ground in the failing light of evening with barely enough fabric on his lap to cover his loins.

When the scouting party first made contact with him, he made certain to telegraph his movements as he placed his satchel on the ground before stepping back and sinking into seiza. Knowing that his word held no weight, he immediately began to strip himself down to the waist to show that he didn’t pose a threat, that he had no sword arm or jutsu to bring to bear. In hindsight, he probably should have been more culturally sensitive.

Madara studies him long enough to take in the state of his undress and turns away.

“Whatever this is about, you have less than two seconds to spit it out, Senju,” he snarls, gaze averted. Though, before Tobirama can reply, Madara cuts him off. “And where’s your arm?”

Tobirama sighs. He’s very much tempted to say he misplaced it.

“I’ve come to offer the Uchiha a proposal of peace,” he states without inflection. “As for my arm, it was removed as a show of good will.”

Leaves shuffle loudly as Izuna shifts his weight then falls still at his brother’s side. A handful of chakra signatures flicker in surprise from the team of Uchiha crouching unseen in the trees around them. 

“Good will?” Madara seemingly overcomes his modesty in favor of staring Tobirama down, head cocked. His bangs fall to cover the majority of his face, but Tobirama can still hear the frown in his voice, the way his already deep baritone slips even lower. “You had someone cut off your arm? The _Senju heir’s _arm. Why would I ever—Hashirama knows I would have accepted less.”

“My actions are my own, and I didn’t amputate my arm as a show of good will to you, Uchiha,” Tobirama snaps back before he can manage to subdue his tone or obscure the implication. 

There’s a sharp inhale.

“This is insane,” Izuna says, viciously rubbing his face with his hands. “Completely horse-shit crazy. We should go. Just—just leave him here.”

And Tobirama has to agree. This _is_ insane. He never intended for his capitulation to become such a spectacle. Even so, leaving empty-handed is not an option.

“The state of my appendages means nothing. In the satchel, you’ll find three scrolls, each with a different option drafted for peace negotiations. I’m well aware that you share my brother’s dream, Uchiha Madara, just as I know that your clan will never accept his overtures without leverage. To that end, I offer myself.” His voice rings out with conviction from where he sits on the ground like a servitor with the bearing of a lord.

After a long moment of contemplation, his earnestness proves to be enough.

Madara approaches the bag, hips swaying as he stalks forward like a predator and crouches down on his haunches not a pace away. As loyal as ever, Izuna follows if only to tug at the collar of his brother’s mantle in warning. “Don’t trust this Senju bastard. It’s a trap, I know it is. He’s going to take us both out with whatever is in there,” he warns, nightmare eyes spinning faster as he stares Tobirama down.

Tobirama meets them without flinching.

“He’s a cripple. What by the Sage do you think half a man can do?” Madara shoots back over his shoulder.

Now that makes Tobirama wince, a reaction that goes unremarked , but not unnoticed. As if the small, simple show of weakness was all Izuna was waiting for, he shoots forward and goes to his knees next to Madara. A kunai appears in one hand as he slaps the satchel back down into the dirt.

“You don’t know him like I do. He hates us. _Hates_ us, Nii-san! The minute you turn your back, he’s going to find some way to murder every last person in our clan. This is just another one of his tricks and we can’t fall for it. Let me slit his throat and we’ll leave him to the crows,” Izuna begins slowly, gaining momentum as his knuckles turn white with determination on the handle of his kunai. Puffs of condensation escape his lips with each shallow breath.

Madara snaps his head around and snarls in warning. “Izuna…” His obvious displeasure doesn’t dam the seemingly endless stream of words, though.

“With this asshole out of the way it won’t be hard to annihilate the rest of the Senju. We’ll take our peace and he won’t be around to—” 

“Izuna!” Madara roars, chakra flaring so bright it illuminates the night.

“_He won’t be around to suffer for it!_”

Oh.

Kindness is not something Tobirama had expected.

Even Anija has never fought for him so vehemently—crouching with wild eyes and yelling in the face of family to protect his integrity as both a ninja and a man. It makes sense that his long-time rival would feel offset by the sudden power vacuum, but he makes it almost seem as if he cares. There’s a chill to the approaching night that raises gooseflesh along his arms. Surely that’s all it is.

Tobirama pointedly clears his throat. “If you are through with the dramatics, the missives, please,” he drawls, absently flicking his hair out of his face. Without the familiar comfort of his happuri to tame it, it’s grown long enough to be a nuisance, he notes absently.

The Uchiha brothers’ attention flicks first to him with identical expressions of reproach, then to the leather satchel. Taking a deep, bracing breath, Madara shoves Izuna back hard enough to land him on his bottom, then removes the first scroll.

“Your warning is noted. Now sit down and shut-up, Otouto,” he commands in a manner softer than his words. 

Tobirama spends the next two hours in silence while Madara reads and mutters under his breath, taking some small pleasure in the warmth of the flames that pop up around the small glade. His legs buzz from sitting in seiza for too long and his right arm aches as if it’s still there. Which is strange. His clone healed the wound well. There shouldn’t be any residual pain, much less this queer phantom sensation of flexing joints he no longer has.

As the night deepens, the shock of what he’s done begins to register. There’s a sixty-six percent probability that he will make it through this alive and he only just now realizes that he never considered the ramifications of having to live like this. When he was drafting the missives it was as if he was discussing someone else’s life, someone who would carry through the day whole in body if not in spirit.

It’s not like him to be so shortsighted. 

If he had a way to dispel his clone before morning comes, he would. He’s been unkind and Hashirama—his Anija was cruel, but not deserving of this. It’s too late now.

Before Tobirama’s thoughts can grow any darker, Madara clears his throat. “You’re serious?” he asks with a note of disbelief.

Tobirama narrows his eyes. As if he has ever been anything other.

“Okay,” Madara says, nodding to himself and smacking the thickest of the scrolls against his thigh—the marriage contract. The tapping gains a metronomic quality. “Okay. This can work. I can do something with this.” There’s a brusqueness to his touch as he scoots close enough to pull Tobirama’s yukata back to rights. The brush of his glove carefully skirts the line of Tobirama’s exposed clavicle and lingers on his throat before falling away.

“Burn these.” He tosses the remaining scrolls to Izuna who closes his eyes and does as bidden, rubbing his recently grazed ribs with an expression Tobirama has never seen before.

It looks like guilt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to address some of the commenters who are ready to form a mob and run Hashirama down with pitchforks...remember, this is all Tobirama's POV. While Hashirama may have said some nasty things in anger (haven't we all at some point?), Tobirama is the one interpreting it all and cranking that dial up to 1000. ;D That's not to say that he's completely at fault here, but there is absolutely nothing normal about his reaction/response. I don't think I've ever written a scene with black and white morality in my life. lolol


	23. MadaTobi- Amputation (Part 4 of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle, tensions had been high and Hashirama was still coming down from the disappointment of another refusal. He had been…unkind. There’s no excusing the things he said, or at least the way he said them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Madara/Tobirama  
Theme: Amputation  
Rating: M
> 
> Warnings for mild blood/violence.

Hashirama wakes slowly, hooding his eyes as he rolls away from an errant patch of sunlight. There’s not much to do today; he can afford to laze about on his futon for an hour or so and let the dawn steadily warm his toes. Luxuriating in the familiar sounds of home isn’t a pleasure he’s afforded often since taking the mantle of clan head. This morning, he’s going to savor it.

He falls back into a light doze, murmuring softly and startling himself awake with his own voice a short time later. The sun has shifted enough to illuminate the wall of rice paper panels in a pretty panoply of light. Tobi always comments on it—has enjoyed watching the soft glow since they were kids. 

The memory makes him smile even as his chest tightens.

Tobirama.

His precious otouto.

After the battle, tensions had been high and Hashirama was still coming down from the disappointment of another refusal. He had been…unkind. There’s no excusing the things he said, or at least the way he said them.

His brother is just so quick to kill. Single-minded and determined even though Hashirama has told him time and time again to think before he strikes. Tobirama is fast and skilled in ways even he isn’t, surely it can’t be that hard to turn a blade or avoid direct confrontation altogether. There are other ways, too. He’s a little cold, but he’s surprisingly good at speeches. If Tobi could work on convincing Izuna to give peace a try instead of skewering him, they would have a much easier time of things.

Groaning, Hashirama pulls a handful of hair over his face. Who is he kidding? His mokuton would sooner give birth to puppies.

Too unsettled to idle in bed any longer, he sits up with a grunt and rubs the sleep from his eyes. Tobirama is usually around to massage the stiffness from his lower back after a skirmish. He wonders briefly where he got off to, lamenting fond wishes of honing oil and his brother’s strong hands.

Oh well. Breakfast, then.

His stomach growls as if on cue, surprising a bark of laughter from him. However, before he can get up to have the servants prepare his typical grilled mackerel and miso soup, there’s a hard, familiar rap on his door.

“Perfect timing, Tobi!” he says in lieu of a greeting.

Tobirama slides open the shoji screen and steps in with the same silent, assured stride with which he stalks the battlefield. It’s weird. Normally he’ll at least shuffle a little bit or let his shoulders relax when he’s home like this. Hashirama writes it off as another of his brother’s peculiarities.

“I was about to go eat but now that you’re here,” he pauses, cocking his head and jutting out his lower lip. “You’re not here. Why the clone?”

“My apologies, Anija, I had pressing matters to attend to elsewhere,” the clone states with a formal half-bow. He closes the door behind himself and kneels an arm’s length away from the edge of Hashirama’s futon. “I have simply come to deliver a gift to you, then I will dispel myself.”

“A gift?” Hashirama asks, perking up. His otouto is sweet to think he needs to give presents as an apology. They both made mistakes yesterday and said things that don’t bear repeating. Still, it warms Hashirama’s heart to see Tobirama taking the first step in making amends. He really is a good brother.

He accepts the silk-wrapped package with a smile as bright as the midmorning sun. Flicking his hair back over his shoulder, he settles the surprisingly heavy gift in his lap and unfastens the red fabric, only belatedly realizing his hands are wet.

Blood gathers in the arches of his palms and drips down along his brown skin, slowly spreading along the whiteness of his duvet.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, voice turning hard. It’s an arm, he can see that much. Even though it’s cool to the touch, there’s no obvious sign of decomposition or swelling—clearly Tobirama’s doing to abort the natural order of things.

“It is both a gift and a promise. You now have complete control of my sword arm, as you requested. I have also taken measures to ensure that your trust in me has not been misplaced. No matter the cost, you will always have me to rely on, Anija.” Tobirama smiles, blinking slowly.

It takes a moment to process the words and pair them with the insinuation of darker things. When it all finally clicks, Hashirama’s heart stops. He flings the grotesque body part away and tears off his bedding. The blood has already seeped through to his sleeping yukata and he can’t help but stare down at it in horror.

“Where is he?” he whispers, desperately pawing at his front and only succeeding in spreading the stain. The room wavers. “_Where is my brother?_”

Sighing, Tobirama reaches into the folds of his obi to unsheathe a tanto. “I was instructed not to say,” he replies, tone cool and easy despite Hashirama’s panic. “I’ve already asked for your breakfast to be prepared. Enjoy your morning, Anija.”

As if he could ever enjoy another morning again. His brother is gone and the only thing left is a grisly reminder of words flung like kunai the day before. He will have Tobirama back or he’ll tear all of Fire Country apart in the search. Anything that can be broken can be healed—an arm or a bond, it can be fixed. There’s still time.

Mokuton rips through the floorboards and snaps the clone’s wrist before the tanto blade can strike true. Between breaths, Hashirama is on him, hands fisted in his kimono and teeth bared. Blood smears across Tobirama’s throat as Hashirama shifts his grip and pins him to the writhing floor.

“_Where?_” he roars with all the unrelenting force of the forest’s might. His chakra tears furrows in the ceiling, letting loose a rain of dust. 

Eyes wide, Tobirama chokes and goes completely still under him. “I—” He coughs until his eyes stream and the hold on his throat finally loosens enough to speak. “I have sold myself to Uchiha Madara in pursuit of peace. No matter the personal outcome, you will have your dream, Anija,” he says as if confused as to why his brother is so incensed by this logic.

Before Hashirama’s strangled scream dies, Tobirama’s clone manages to pry loose a piece of the floorboard and bury it deep into his thigh. He dispels in a puff of smoke that has Hashirama cradling a pile of shattered lumber instead of his baby brother.

He screams again—long and loud—until his lungs ache. Even then, his jaw hangs wide in silence as his dismay overwhelms his drive to breath. His throat clicks wetly and tears run unimpeded. Finally—when blackness encroaches on his vision—his stomach gives and air whooshes back into his chest.

He’ll have his otouto back.

Madara is fundamentally good. He knows this peace they dream of is for their brothers and would never do anything to jeopardize that.

Hashirama will have his otouto back.

He will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone in this AU is so messed up in the head. Except Izuna. Izuna, you're doing great, sweety.


	24. MadaTobi and HashiIzu- Siren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobirama’s smile is a hard-won thing, and all the more precious for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing(s): Madara/Tobirama, Hashirama/Izuna  
Theme: Siren  
Rating: E
> 
> Warning for discussion of eating people? I genuinely can't tag for shit. XD

The weight of familiar hands on his hips has Madara leaning back to accept the gentle kiss he knows will follow. Lips press sweetly against his cheek and begin to wander down his neck until he pulls away, laughing.

“You’re insufferable,” he mutters with affected annoyance.

“And you like it,” Tobirama shoots back, pulling Madara away from the sink and the dishes that sit only half-finished.

Sage preserve him, Madara does. He adores everything about this obnoxious man he calls husband. And what gets him the most is that the smug bastard _knows_ it.

“Bull-shit,” he quips, because he can never make things easy.

Luckily, Tobirama translates his abrasiveness as the ‘I love you’ it is. He gathers Madara close, crowds him back against the counter, and proceeds to steal his breath away.

Nights are always like this—filled with the company of his small family of four—and it’s almost unfair how happy they’ve made him. Tobirama is the husband he never thought he’d find, mindful and solicitous, forgiving of his faults and with just enough of his own to be a prickly bastard. Though he’ll never admit it aloud, Madara lives for the challenge.

And Izuna. Izuna is the polestar that guides him. He would tear down the moon for his otouto just to make sure his light continues to shine the brightest. Hashirama echoes his sentiments in that regard. Apparently the dim witted tree has some brain cells rubbing together between his ears after all. 

In his distraction, Madara doesn’t realize how much time has passed languidly measuring the weight of Tobirama’s tongue and thanking the gods for his family until the tea kettle begins to whistle.

***

_The storm wails overhead, a banshee shriek growing louder and more vicious with each passing gust. Waves crash over his back, half drowning him as he claws at the sand, pulling his battered body forward with the last dregs of his strength. It would be so much easier to give up—to succumb the way Hashirama had. He can’t, though. Giving up would mean letting Izuna know the pain of losing a brother as well as a husband. _

_For all the sea has given them, it’s taken away just as much. Madara won’t let his otouto suffer alone. _

_He grunts as he manages to get a hold of an outcropping of coral, using the stony prominence to gather his feet under him. The ocean bottom stretches out for half a league, having been drained to feed the massive typhoon that swept in and capsized Hashirama’s little fishing vessel. _

_Hashirama. _

_Though his heart feels like it’s breaking, there’s no time for tears. _

_The ocean has enough brine. _

***

Madara blinks quickly and catches himself on the counter. One breath. Two. Count to ten.

The tea is prepared and steaming on a tray he doesn’t remember setting up. Tobirama is gone, his strong voice rising up from the washitsu and answered immediately by his brother’s wail.

Madara frowns. It’s not like him to lose swaths of time, particularly not with his clan’s propensity for eidetic memory. He briefly sends a surge of chakra to his eyes, allowing his dojutsu to unfold. The coils respond sluggishly, as if from overuse, but are otherwise intact and unadulterated. Letting it go for now, he releases the Sharingan and fishes out the tea cups with the wave pattern on them—a wedding gift from his late father in law.

A potent matcha will complement the white porcelain and pair well with the lingering taste of Tobirama’s kiss.

Like salt on his lips.

***

_Ocean spray floods his mouth. _

_Lucidity comes and goes in bouts. _

_The screaming wind buffets him and dogs his steps until he trips over his own leaden feet. Everything goes black. When he comes to again, the sand is tinged pink and the world spins. It doesn’t relent, even when he crawls up the last of the incline and finds the one patch of earth that will hold his weight without sucking his hands and knees down. He needs to go further towards the tree line—he’s well aware that as soon as the water wall of the typhoon hits, he’ll be swept under. But he’s bone tired. _

_Thoughts of Izuna can only drive him so far when his muscles give and his arms crumple. _

_He lies on the beach with his cheek pressed to the sand and watches the dark sky swirl. _

_A watery death will be upon him soon. All he can do is wait. _

***

“There’s rain on the way,” Tobirama announces before using both hands to take a delicate sip of his tea.

Madara’s head snaps towards him so violently his own tea spills in his lap. Hissing, he pats at his sodden kimono as if that will keep it from burning his thighs. It happened again, the strange displacement of time. One minute he was in the kitchen, now he’s settled around the chabudai on a stretch of tatami mat that’s already warmed by his body heat.

He can see the afterimage of circling clouds and can feel the pressure of storm bands even as Tobirama’s eyes narrow. His husband’s gaze is the same red as the sky on the morning of the typhoon. A warning that he never thought to heed.

“Are you okay, Nii-san?” Izuna asks, his amusement fading at the note of tension. “It’s just a storm.”

A storm.

Just a storm.

Memories from a life that wasn’t his infiltrate and send up flashes of sensation—water rising from all sides, the burn of salt in his eyes, agony as his lungs fill with ocean water. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” he says, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. A forced smile. “Hashirama’s gardens won’t be if it decides to flood again.”

Hashirama’s booming laughter reverberates like thunder. “That’s what I have my precious otouto for!” he crows as he throws himself bodily across Izuna’s lap to tug at Tobirama’s trailing sleeve. “Right, Tobi? You’ll protect my plants, won’t you?”

“I will always look after you, Anija.”

He looks to Madara and watches him through white lashes.

Wind chimes begin to tinkle just outside of the shoji screens.

***

_Above the sound of the rampaging sky, Madara can hear the first notes of a kote ring out like the opening of sakura blossoms. The plucked strings are beautiful, vibrant and deep. As the melody unfolds, it’s accompanied by a lovely, almost otherworldly tenor. If he had any strength left to him, he would turn to look for the ghost who haunts this island, but as it is, all he can do is watch the sand shift under his cheek as the violent froth comes back in. _

_He closes his eyes and listens to the gale give way to his own funeral song. _

_It’s too hard to hold on—he’s too weak to fight. Izuna is going to be alone. _

_With the gift of music in his heart, Madara’s tears finally begin to flow._

***

“You’re starting to remember again,” Tobirama states without inflection.

Starting to remember what, Madara can’t say. These flashes of imagery are heart wrenching and something lies just beyond his reach. There’s a truth looming dark as the night and twice as deep.

It sits somewhere between the snatches of time he keeps losing.

He’s not even surprised to note the plushness of a futon against his back when only a second ago he recalls mopping tea from his clothing while Izuna tossed napkins at him under the guise of helping.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He lifts his hips and allows his husband to undress him, then rolls over to nuzzle Tobirama’s preferred pillow.

It smells like the sea.

***

_Broad palms bracket his waist, thumbs stroking along the dip of his spine. Lips trace a nomadic line down his neck that ends in a sharp nip at the juncture of his shoulder. _

_Madara has never known a touch so cold, like ice despite the warmth of the rain. _

_There’s a shift in the voice amidst the kote’s notes, more felt than heard. It sings of hearth and home—of Izuna dancing in the moonlight with his living love and of a warm embrace for Madara to fall into at the end of the day. Healing flame illuminates the moments they all share as a family bound by blood and heart. _

_His tears fall faster. _

_Madara doesn’t know why the siren bothers to tempt him. It’s not as if he can fight the teeth that sink into skin long since made soft and pruned by the sea. That first bite stings, but the pain soon resolves into something like pleasure. He moans as the mouth disengages and he’s rolled onto his back. _

_The sky is no longer quite so dark. There are even patches where the sun threatens to piece through. It’s the eye of the storm and Madara thanks all merciful gods that he will at least pass in the light. _

_Knowing that Amaterasu will be able to guide his spirit home, h_ _e begins to pray._

***

Eyelids fluttering, Madara digs his fingers into Tobirama’s back and chants his name like a mantra. Everything is a little bit too sharp. A little bit too sweet. He’s already found his release, spilling between them and making the slide of his husband’s body against his that much slicker. Just as his thighs begin to quake at the fire-bright sensation of too much, Tobirama’s hips stutter for a long, sustained moment, then grind against him until he finally stills.

His cries of pleasure warble like plucked cords. Everything about him is one long, beautiful note. Eventually his labored breaths slow and he eases himself from Madara’s body with a soft, wet sound to conclude their melody.

They lie in the afterglow for a time, curled up in each other and ignoring the release growing tacky between them.

There’s something hovering just at the edge of Madara’s consciousness. He sees an image of Tobirama’s crooked smile and suddenly knows that he likes the way Madara’s lassitude tastes after sex—the flesh marinated in a mixture of savory and sweet that warms his throat all the way down, likening it to a fine liqueur. But, he also knows that anxiety and pain are the flavors Tobirama enjoys most. They’re the heat that sits heavy in his belly and satisfies long after his meal is through.

It’s a queer recollection, all the more confusing without context.

“Will you try again for me?” Tobirama murmurs against his forehead, punctuating his question with a kiss.

Madara snorts and curls closer, shaking off the disturbing imagining of blood on his husband's lips. “Mmm, sure. I’m going to need a few minutes, though,” he says slowly, bemused, but more than willing to go a second round.

There’s a pregnant pause. A sigh.

“No, koibito. Not sex. Do you want to try to remember for me this time?”

***

_The siren is a thing of intense beauty. He’s strong and lean, built along elegant lines with skin as white as sea foam. Madara doesn’t know if it’s a glamour that makes him appear so achingly human, but he doesn’t particularly care either. _

_He uses the last flicker of chakra in him to activate his Sharingan and embed the image in his soul. _

_Eyes wide, the siren swoops in close and studies his swirling tomoe from a scant few inches away. There’s a sudden wonder there even as his teeth drip red with Madara’s blood. _

_He speaks in lyrical whistles that resolve into words if Madara doesn’t try to focus on them. The creature, Tobirama, suggests an offer that’s equal parts horror and deliverance. It can return Hashirama to life and fulfill Madara’s dreams of comfortable domesticity…for a price. _

_The Uchiha’s dojutsu is a revered gift—an oceanic jewel that can feed a siren for three days over the course of a single second, time and time again. Tobirama's voice weaves a tapestry describing the pain and pleasure that comes with devouring flesh, the joy of satiation. It's a show of deep, abiding affection, and one only fleetingly had among his kind._

_He offers an exchange. _

_Madara’s dream for his own. _

_Unconditional love for control over the Sharingan when the sun sets._

_His magic for Madara’s renewable flesh. _

***

Izuna’s laughter rises up from the living room, followed by Hashirama’s soon after. They’re as in inseparable as they were the first day Tobirama breathed life into Hashirama’s corpse and brought Izuna’s husband back home.

Madara understands now.

Sodden and blood soaked on the beach, he had asked Tobirama to wipe his memory every time he delved in to devour Madara in their shared mindscape. The horror of it was too much. It’s still too much, but he can accept the nature of Tobirama’s love a little more than before. For a siren, there’s no greater gift than that of being consumed. However Tobirama chooses to have him from night to night, Madara will activate his Sharingan and surrender control for three days in a second.

If it’s too much, he’ll ask to forget again until he can come to terms with the fear.

"Madara?"

“I’ll try,” he offers, heartbeat loud in his ears. “I’ll try for as long as I can this time.”

Tobirama’s smile is a hard-won thing, and all the more precious for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was so much fun!
> 
> In case anything was unclear, Tobirama controls Madara's Sharingan to devour him and feel the satiation of a steady food source. He makes Madara forget each time (at Madara's behest), but a siren's love is shared in those moments of intimacy/consumption, so he asks Madara to try and remember for as long as he's able.
> 
> Ah, young love. 
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	25. TobiIzu- Taken (Part 1 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izuna is well aware that what he’s doing is wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Tobirama/Izuna  
Theme: Taken  
Rating: T
> 
> Warnings for manipulation/brainwashing.

Izuna is well aware that what he’s doing is wrong.

It’s not that he doesn't realize, he just can’t be bothered to care about the morality of it.

They’re shinobi, not saints.

At the end of the day, this is no different than running an elaborate honey pot mission or slipping a knife in below the diamyō’s fourth rib. Each time Tobirama kisses him—whenever his thighs are hitched up around a strong, slender waist—Izuna’s fire burns. It devours the slips of tinder that comprise their unfolding intimacy. Their forbidden love.

Not that Konoha cares what two soldiers do behind closed doors. It’s only Hashirama’s forest deep anger that keeps Izuna circumspect in his machinations.

A smile here.

A touch there.

Stolen moments in passing, culminating in long, passionate nights.

Four months ago, Tobirama had returned from a mission battered, bloody, and two weeks late. It’s not an uncommon occurrence among shinobi to take damage, but something irreversible had happened—brain damage, the medics whispered. Even after their illustrious hokage had healed the physical injury, there was something that remained forever changed. 

Tobirama’s memory slowly deteriorated over the course of that first night spent in observation. When he awoke, everyone was a stranger. His mind was a blank slate at the whims of whichever voice could convince him of the truth—and no one is more convincing than Izuna when he commits himself to a task.

Hashirama hadn’t realized what was happening until it was too late to unmoor the foundations laid by subtle genjutsu and a silver tongue.

After that, Izuna’s rival grew impulsive. Not abnormally so, just more typical, more human in his urges than the sycophant who came before.

Now, when he wants a day off, he takes it. When he wants to have Izuna spread across his desk instead of paperwork, he takes him. He speaks up for his own wants and needs and Izuna will cherish the memory of that first time he told Hashirama ‘no.’

This new Tobirama has no compunction when it comes to self-advocating, even if it goes directly against his brother’s wishes. The good of the village comes second to his own well-being—as it should. Izuna is proud of his man of clay and desires nothing more than to continue carving out a place for himself in Tobirama’s heart—

To take the love that should have been his all along.


	26. Hashitobi- Equinox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anija is a genuinely good man—a staunch protector and visionary, born to lead while still looking to the needs of his people. Tobirama cannot fault him anything. In fact, he’s dedicated his life to his brother for precisely those reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing(s): Hashirama/Tobirama, implied one-sided Tobirama/Izuna  
Theme: Equinox  
Rating: E
> 
> Warnings for...fuck...everything. This one is wild. lol Incest, consent issues like whoa. There's nothing graphic, but I figured I'd rate it E just in case.

“It’s not like you to take vacations,” Izuna points out as he twirls a kunai around his finger and flicks it up to embed in the oaken beam above Tobirama’s bed. He wrinkles his nose as a chip of wood falls on his face. “A family trip, no less. Last I heard, extended brotherly outings weren’t your thing.”

With a sharp tug of ninja wire, he whips the kunai back into his palm and does it all over again.

“Stop destroying my room,” Tobirama snaps in lieu of answering. He’s not sure if it’s Izuna’s childish conduct or the fact that he’s right that sticks in his craw more. Slogging through a week-long backlog—exhausted and in need of a cushion on his stool—is not something that bears contemplating. Shoving the last of his sleeping yukata into a pack, he knots the drawstring with a vicious pull, and hurls it across the room.

Izuna’s offended squawk is well worth the clothing that is now surely wrinkled inside.

“Don’t you have something else to occupy your time rather than lying on my bed and interfering in my affairs?”

Scoffing, Izuna kicks at the sheets and rocks up into tailor sitting, hugging the pack against his chest. “Your affairs? What about my affairs? Do you have any idea how awful this next week is going to be? Your brother is leaving Nii-san in charge as acting Hokage. _Nii-san_. Mark my words, this place is going to go up in flames. You’re going to come back to a pile of ash with Madara standing on top, pissing on the Hyuuga clan leader’s head,” he says, gesticulating hugely and using the pack as a prop.

As dramatic as he is, Izuna has a point. Tobirama pinches the bridge of his nose and sits down heavily on the edge of his futon, forearms resting on his knees. It’s not that he wants to go—not really—it’s just that Anija grows so restless when spring encroaches. That first snowmelt is always the worst and over the past few years he’s found that a brief sabbatical in the Forest of Death is typically all it takes to sooth the raging mokuton in his breast.

“Hashirama doesn’t strike me as the gallivanting type and I _know_ you aren’t,” Izuna continues.

He’s not. Tobirama shifts enough for his rival-turned-comrade to bully up close to his side, playfully bumping shoulders.

“Where do you two even go? The fuck do you do for a week at a time?”

Izuna’s word choice is unfortunate, brings up images of bronze skin and the stars rocking in the night sky as Tobirama screams his pained release. They draw forth a bloom of heat in his cheeks that has nothing to do with his friend’s warmth.

“We go into the forest so that Anija may commune with his element,” he says simply, relieved that his voice stays steady.

They’ll set up camp, nothing extravagant, only a simple mokuton plinth open on all sides to the forest around them. There will be a few of the trappings of home—a wood stove for tea, a chabudai at which to take their meals, and a large tub to wash bodies and linens alike. The insects and animals know not to approach when Hashirama is at the peak of his power, so there’s no need for anything more.

“That sounds really boring.” Plopping back onto the futon with a huff, Izuna spreads his arms and musses the sheets. The jut of his lower lip is so much like Hashirama’s pout that Tobirama has to look away. “And to think, you’d rather spend time hugging a tree than easing the workload for poor little me. I’m hurt, Snowflake.”

Hugging a tree.

“You’re an idiot is what you are,” Tobirama corrects, swallowing against the sudden dryness.

Anija is a genuinely good man—a staunch protector and visionary, born to lead while still looking to the needs of his people. Tobirama cannot fault him anything. In fact, he’s dedicated his life to his brother for precisely those reasons.

He’s an easy man to love.

The only issue arises with the Spring, when Hashirama—his fair, kind brother—is made to share his body with another. Hosting the mokuton lends a darkness to him that only surfaces during the daylight hours for those first few days following the vernal equinox. But, when it does surface, there’s a violence in him that must find a home. Through trial and error, Tobirama has found that those primal urges inundating Hashirama with forest-dark wrath can be directed towards less destructive pursuits.

The village doesn’t need to suffer when he can satisfy the mokuton’s need to conquer and destroy with the intimacy of his body.

During the day, he sacrifices himself to the forest that infests his Anija. At night, he cleans them both, fixes the furniture, and playacts as if nothing has happened when Hashirama comes back to himself.

Hugging a tree? No, he does much more than that. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure, I’m an idiot. I guess we can’t all be as smart and refined as the illustrious Senju Tobirama,” Izuna quips, grinning as sly as any fox. He pulls out a small Uchiwa from the voluminous sleeves of his kimono and begins to fan himself. “So tall.”

_Hashirama using the advantage of his height to push him down, hair falling around them like a curtain._

“So strong.”

_Unrelenting roots binding his wrists and ankles as if the decades spent training his body meant nothing. _

“So handsome.”

_“My pretty, pretty otouto. Sweet, and pretty, and made for me,” the forest croons with Hashirama’s lips as it settles between his thighs._

“Stop it,” Tobirama groans, letting his head sink between his knees.

Izuna squirms about and slaps Tobirama’s back with the fan. “Oh, come-on. You’re no fun today.”

“Izuna, please, just stop.”

The use of the word ‘please’ aborts whatever Izuna was about to say and has him sitting up, brow furrowed as he rests a hand on Tobirama’s bicep. For all that he playacts like a child when they’re alone, Izuna is a consummate shinobi and a master of lies. Tobirama should have chosen his words and his tone more carefully.

“Hey, is everything okay?”

No, it’s not.

In the next couple of minutes Tobirama will be joining his Anija as they make their way toward what amounts to a sacrificial altar. His brother will hold him down and pleasure his body in every way conceivable for a man to be taken. He’ll call it ‘pollinating’ and sing their near-continuous release to the forest, because Hashirama has nothing if not inhuman endurance. With the spirit of the mokuton taking hold, his already exemplary prowess will culminate in something so powerful that Tobirama will sob until his tears run dry.

Clawing his fingers bloody against the floorboards won’t afford him any reprieve from the relentless fucking. The forest will only dig deeper, piston faster seeing evidence of the stranglehold it has. Pleasure and insurmountable pain all rolled into one. But, what will hurt the most is that when the sun sets twelve hours later, his brother will fall asleep and remember none of it.

Like clockwork, he’ll rest for an hour—long enough for Tobirama to heal himself and clear away the evidence of their passions—then arise with a sunshine-bright smile and the chaste affections of a brother. Tobirama will have to play the dutiful sibling as if he hadn’t been ravished until he was raw by a creature wearing Hashirama’s face.

Hashirama can’t be allowed to know what his body does in the day. It would break him. So, Tobirama bears the burden for them in silence every year.

At least this way no one has to die.

“I’m perfectly fine, Izuna, and my mood would be markedly improved if I didn’t have to deal with your insipid nonsense day after day, “ he says wryly, glancing over from beneath the fringe of his hair.

That sets his friend to laughing, though the crinkle by his eyes is conspicuously absent. “Whatever. You love me and you know it,” he announces brazenly. “In fact, if Nii-san hadn’t already started peace talks, you were probably going to whisk me away on a magical elopement that would have brought our clans together in the bonds of sweet matrimony.”

“I think your brain has eloped.”

This time the laugh is genuine.

“Probably,” he admits. Before he can say anything further on the subject, the door to Tobirama’s bedroom flies open so exuberantly it bounces in its tracks.

“Tobi! I’m ready; let’s go!” Hashirama exclaims, bright, verdant chakra whipping up little eddies of light and air. There’s a matching pack on his shoulder and the weathered boots that he favors on what he calls their ‘exciting expeditions of brotherly bonding’. Tobirama winces at the alliteration every time without fail. “Oh, hi, Izuna,” Hashirama remarks as an afterthought.

Izuna gives a little waggle of his fingers and dutifully moves aside as Tobirama reaches across him to retrieve his pack. He jerks it onto his shoulder and rocks up to his feet all in one motion.

“It’s about time, Anija. We only have two days until the equinox and I’d like to be camped within one,” he snaps, storming across the room. That will give him one day to remind himself of the sanctity of their bond as siblings before the mokuton takes control.

“Sorry, otouto,” Hashirama replies, shoulders slumping. He only returns to his full height when Tobirama sweeps past him into the hall and disappears down the corridor.

***

What a lovely start to the week.

Hashirama memorizes the swell of Tobirama’s buttocks as he leaves the room, humming his appreciation without bothering to hide the fact. Licking his lips, he shifts his attention to where Izuna watches him intently, stone-faced.

“You shouldn’t covet things that aren’t yours, Izuna,” he says brightly, good cheer adding a touch of color to his handsome face—red like the rising sun. “It won’t end well.”

Maybe this year he can start to include the autumnal equinox, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mokuton taking over in spring thing is all an act. ^_^


	27. HashiIzuTobi- basilisk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a temple steward has its perks on occasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Hashirama/Izuna/Tobirama  
Theme: basilisk  
Rating: T
> 
> Not horror! I wanted something light. ^_^

Izuna shifts his linen wraps to sit more comfortably over his eyes and returns to his duties. 

The soft curves of a woman’s face tell a story of a life spent in relative comfort. The cut of her kimono is expensive, her hair well styled, and he wonders what would have driven a person like her to brave the depths of this cursed temple.

He sighs as he finishes studying her face with his fingers and sets to polishing her brow with a dry cloth until the stone is smooth.

She’s probably one of the poor unfortunates who thought to find the Fountain for health, longevity, immortality—any one of a myriad of made-up benefits that happen to gain popularity in the folklore from time to time. 

As if the natural spring deep in the bowels of the temple is anything more than a giant fish bowl. He should know, he’s the one who put the koi in there in the first place. Tobirama had been _furious_ for weeks and his spiraling diatribe could be heard clear across fire country right up until he realized that the two Hirenaga koi enjoyed being handfed.

Funny how pragmatic concerns fall by the wayside when something sparks his interest.

Now, Izuna makes sure to keep a small basket stocked with remnants from their meals—sheets of nori, lettuce, diced fruit, and just about anything that survives Hashirama’s massive appetite—specifically for the recalcitrant naga to pamper his pets. Izuna maintains that Tobirama only likes them because they’re as pale and lifeless as he is. Not that he’s actually seen them, or Tobirama for that matter, but Hashirama had assured him they were flawlessly white to match.

Being a temple steward has its perks on occasion, like purposefully pissing off semi-divine beings and living to tell the tale.

Smiling fondly, Izuna kicks his stool over to Hashirama’s most recent acquisition.

This statue is of a man well past his prime, brow furrowed and mouth twisted into a particularly unflattering scream. Despite his aged appearance, he bears heavy armor and what feels like a warrior’s crest hammered into his cuirass. It’s not one Izuna recognizes. Though, older than most, small clan or no, his pauldrons sit astride shoulders nearly as broad and thickly muscled as Hashirama’s.

Almost.

There are a few statues here among the thousands that can match Hashirama’s build, but not many. The basilisk bastard delights in having Izuna blindly measure him in comparison. It’s like he’s fishing for compliments, as if Izuna doesn’t worship his stupid, symmetrical face every night regardless.

He shakes his head and returns to buffing out a patch of corrosion on the warrior’s topknot.

Though he’d sooner swallow his pail of castor oil than admit it, he has the brothers’ names carved so deeply into his heart that it aches. Nesting in a bed of coils while trading snide comments with Tobirama and sweet nothings with his fire-bright brother is more than payment enough for his years of service.

That he has their strange version of love in return is more than he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In summary, Izuna is a monster fucker. XD
> 
> (There was a different variation of this theme posted last night, but I didn't care for it, so I took it down and rewrote it.)


	28. Madatobi, IzuTobi- Amputation (Part 5 of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody understands Tobirama like Izuna does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Madara/Tobirama, possible future Madara/Tobirama/Izuna  
Theme: Amputation  
Rating: T
> 
> I know I said I wasn't going to write any more Amputation chapters in the horror anthology, but then I received some GORGEOUS artwork that I commissioned for the verse and couldn't resist. T_T 
> 
> <https://perelka-l.tumblr.com/post/188856303903/a-commission-for-writhingbeneathyou-who> Go check Perelka out! I adore their art style. <3

Tobirama is nothing if not deferential, as befitting a husband.

He carries out the edicts of Hashirama’s every word or whim, as befitting a brother.

When not striving to fulfill those primary roles, he tirelessly formulates plans for consideration in improving the village’s infrastructure, as befitting a clansman.

Not to say he does those things without snide commentary and a haughty attitude, but there’s an insidious lack of regard for his own wants and needs—nothing about him is his own. It’s disgusting. And for some reason, Izuna seems to be the only one who notices. Madara is too busy marinating in the trappings of peace with one idiot Senju and falling between the thighs of the other. Hashirama, while solicitous to a fault after having nearly lost his brother, still doesn’t _understand_ him.

Not like Izuna does. 

Tobirama is sick, and Izuna resolves to change that. Not fix—wounds that deep tend to fester—but he can at least ease some of that burden. Promoting even a smattering of intrinsic self-worth will be a victory, he thinks. If he has to revert to underhanded tactics to do so, well that’s just an added bonus.

“Hey, Snowflake, Madara wants you to fill this out,” he calls out into the house they all share, waving a rolled-up sheaf of papers about. Dirt gathers on the engawa from the soles of his sandals and he chews his lip in eager anticipation of the diatribe it’s going to earn him.

There’s a soft clatter down the hall and Tobirama rounds the corner in all of his glory, striding forward with death in his eyes.

“You’re going to clean that up,” he announces as he holds his hand out expectantly.

And, oh, the curled lip and twitching eyebrow are like New Year’s prayers answered by the Kami. If he plays his part right, Izuna thinks he may even be able to tease out that stupid expression Tobirama gets when he’s trying not to recall ever being a shinobi—and _failing_.

“Hmm,” he hums, offering the scroll just outside of reach, “I don’t think I am.”

Success. There’s the flared nostrils, the long, slow inhale that precluded their skirmishes back when they used to face off on the battlefield. Tobirama steps closer, following the papers with his eyes as Izuna continues to gesticulate with them.

“You know how delicate my hands are,” he presses, holding them aloft and using the motion to whip the scroll out of Tobirama’s reach once again. “As soft as the Daimyo’s! They just weren’t made for menial labor like yours are. Is?”

Though he’ll never admit it, his heart jumps when Tobirama finally clenches his jaw and softens his knees in preparation for an attack. There’s nothing simultaneously more beautiful and terrifying than this man in the midst of a lunge. Those long legs closing the gap between them, hands upraised and flashing through jutsu signs faster than a lightning strike. It’s arresting. The fire in his eyes could rival the passion of any Uchiha—and in those moments of single-minded focus, when thoughts of brothers and clan fall away, Izuna has never seen him more alive.

Except that the attack never comes.

Instead, Tobirama blows out the breath he was holding and lets the tension in his body leave along with it. “Then don’t. I’ll address it later.” Blinking slowly, he turns in place and begins to walk back towards the chabudai in their central living space where tea and a well-worn book wait.

Fuck. He was so close—thought he actually had the Senju bastard this time. All it would have taken was one impulsive punch to let loose the sluice gates, he’s sure of it. To get a taste of acting out of turn for selfish reasons. Tobirama is so staunchly opposed to training, crafting jutsu, or anything even remotely related to the warrior that his right arm used to represent. One slip is all Izuna needs to start bringing down the walls of filial piety that keep him cloistered in self-loathing.

Like knocking out the keystone, that’s where the root of Tobirama’s hang-ups lie. Izuna suspects it began with Senju Butsuma's heavy hand, but that’s strictly conjecture.

Running his tongue along the points of his incisors, he follows, affecting a bright smile when Tobirama sits down on the tatami mats and looks up at him indifferently. With his pale skin and white kimono, he looks like the ghost of a feudal lord.

It’s an oddly fitting image. 

“I have neither the time nor the patience for your nonsense. If you won’t let me have it, then read what Madara would ask of me,” he snaps, resorting to that tone of aloofness that makes Izuna’s skin crawl.

“Oh, pull the sheath out of your ass, already. Here,” Izuna scoffs, lazily tossing the scroll just short of Tobirama’s reach so he has to lean for it. Except he doesn’t. Tobirama lets it fall, watching the twine unravel as it rolls towards his thigh. Only then does he pick it up and finish freeing the documents with his teeth.

A brief list of problems regarding the institution of an academy for learning are listed in descending order from most to least pressing. Each line smacks of impatience, written in Madara’s sharp, angular kanji and expertly crafted in such a way to imply deference to a higher authority on the subject—Izuna should know, he forged the thing, after all.

Tobirama’s brow rises as he reads, face softening.

“This is…are you sure he—” Tobirama begins, still staring at the paper, eyes still.

He’s such a lovely man when cowed by validation.

“I’m sure he’s gargling a katon jutsu in his office waiting on you to quit your stalling and fix this mess already,” Izuna quips. He may be laying it on a bit thick, but the prod seems to do the trick.

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m ready when you are.”

Izuna sinks down next to his pet project and takes liberties, leaning against his right side and resting his head on Tobirama’s shoulder. He can feel the sudden tension under his cheek, but he knows Tobirama won’t shove him away—he _can’t_ without putting down the scroll and reaching across his body. Pride keeps him steady and stiff.

“Ready to what?” he asks, making a point of smoothing the wrinkles from the front of Tobirama’s kimono. It’s such a fine, expensive silk and so out of place. He’ll have to replace it with shinobi blacks as soon as possible.

“Ready to dictate my responses,” Tobirama says dryly.

“No.”

He knows exactly what’s coming before it’s even voiced and struggles to keep from laughing.

“_Excuse me_?”

“I said ‘no,’” Izuna drawls, nuzzling into the warm shoulder that smells so much like their home. “’Sweep up after yourself’, ‘write my shit’—what do you think I am? You know what, don’t answer that. If you want to reply to Nii-san, you’re going to have to do it yourself. And hopefully sometime within the next five years so he doesn’t blow up the tower and everyone along with it.”

Everything falls still and quiet but for Tobirama’s labored breaths.

There was one memorable occasion where he went silent for two weeks following Hashirama’s insistent suggestion to either craft a prosthetic limb or grow a new one. The rejection of what Tobirama saw as the ultimate show of his loyalty broke him. Oddly enough, it was Madara who managed to pull him out of that one by some miracle. Their illustrious Hokage never did figure out why the offer was so vehemently denied. Forcing the man to take up a quill again is a small step in comparison. Still, for a brief moment, Izuna thinks he may have pushed a little too far, miscalculated by a hairsbreadth.

Closing his eyes, Tobirama forcibly brings his breathing back under control and holds his hand out just as he had for the sheaf of papers. This time, Izuna doesn’t deny him. He quickly pulls a brush set from one of the satchels on his waist and prepares the ink with practiced ease. As soon as it’s ready, he presses the brush handle against Tobirama’s palm and feels a flush of triumph when their fingers tangle.

“Madara will not be able to,” Tobirama begins, only to stop and change tracks. “I will need your guidance.” The admission comes out small, as if the magnitude of what he’s about to do leaves him bare.

This is his opening. Izuna can’t keep the softness from his expression entirely. Tobirama is going to be his by the end of all of this—more than a tool, more than a golem. He’s going to be the equal partner Madara deserves, a supportive brother to Hashirama without sacrificing everything of himself.

He’s going to be worthy of the name Senju Tobirama and, more importantly than all of that, worthy of himself. 

“Don’t worry. You’ll learn,” Izuna states with a self-satisfied grin. 


	29. HashiIzu-basilisk (redux)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though he loves his clan, their antiquated obsession with the supernatural is stifling. Particularly when his Nii-san has been missing for a month and not even Izuna’s finely honed sensing capabilities have been able to locate him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing(s): Hashirama/Izuna, Madara/Tobirama implied  
Theme: Basilisk/Gorgon  
Rating: T
> 
> A couple of people asked for this to be reposted, so I reworked the original and here you go.

Sandstone scrapes against Izuna’s palms as he feels his way around the caryatid.

Or, at least that’s what he hopes it is and not some poor basilisk victim whose breasts and rounded belly he just accidentally groped. It’s not like there’s anyone around to know except him, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Sorry, okaasan,” he mutters out of respect, just in case. A warm gust of wind carries his apology away and buffets the loose ends of his eye wraps.

Coming to this dilapidated outcropping of rock has been a trial in patience—one that seems to keep growing more and more taxing. The elders tried to warn him away. There’s a beast in the abandoned temple, they said. A monster with a dojutsu more potent than the Sharingan. He had scoffed, filling his pack with provisions and waving off their concerns the following morning.

Though he loves his clan, their antiquated obsession with the supernatural is stifling. Particularly when his Nii-san has been missing for a month and not even Izuna’s finely honed sensing capabilities have been able to locate him. This black spot in his chakra’s sight is the only plot of land in all of Fire Country that he hasn’t scoured and like hell Madara would have died without him knowing. Monster or no, he’ll tear each and every flagstone apart if it means bringing his brother back home.

Sighing, he readjusts the strip of linen over his eyes and continues to feel his way up the broken remnants of a stairway. The treads are long and broad enough to trip him up on every other step. It’s slow going and frustrating enough to set him to cursing.

Fuck whomever thought putting statues of people everywhere was a wise aesthetic choice.

By the time he crests the plinth, the sun has shifted against his back and the shadow of a vast entryway embraces him in the arms of a cool, stale draft and the stillness of a tomb. At least now he can get an idea of where he is in space without the gale screwing with his sense of direction.

He continues with only a mild bolt of apprehension—nowhere near enough to dissuade him from his path.

The echoing slaps of his sandals grow long. It’s a truly massive space and it feels odd not to hear the queer silence of walls up close. If he had planned better, he would have brought wire to guide him back to the entryway. As it is, he’ll have to rely on blindly following the howl of wind through the pillars outside.

“This is bullshit,” he concludes with feeling.

If only his chakra could parse out the layout of the space. But, this temple is old—built long before the Uchiha rose to power—and whatever life-force was imbued within the stone all those centuries ago has since petered out.

The statues are lifeless, the floor is cold, and he can’t sense a damned thing.

“I am so over this already. If you’re here, Nii-san, I’m going to kick your ass,” he announces to the space before him, listening for precisely how long it takes for his voice to return. It doesn’t. Swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat, Izuna hitches his pack further up his shoulder and walks what he thinks is a straight line with his hands upraised.

The deeper he goes, the thicker the smell of stone becomes. It’s a clean, earthy scent and difficult to describe, but he knows it instinctively—knows that he’s going further and further underground with each stride. Statues dot his path, first what he thinks might be a man in traditional samurai armor, then small clusters of people in various states of repose. It’s as if they laid down for the night and never managed to sit back up fully. Izuna takes the time to run his fingers over their features, then moves on.

Either there's a master sculptor running around deep in his cups, or the scrolls of folklore his brother kept were onto something. Though, even if they were and there's a basilisk waiting to turn him to stone, it doesn’t change his mission. He needs to find Madara.

“Hey! You’d better not be shacked up with a monster, Nii-san. If you are, I’m telling father!” he yells into the suffocating stillness. “He’ll be rolling in his grave when he hears you’re down here sucking snake dick!”

This time, his words echo and bring with them a sudden bloom of comfort in knowing that the world isn’t quite so big. There must be an end to the room. Izuna hurries forward, a thin film of sand shifting under his feet. In his haste, he abruptly slams face first into a buxom chest that hits like a war hammer. The impact bowls him over ass over teakettle because the kami obviously hate him.

That’s the only plausible explanation for his life at this point.

Izuna groans and clutches his broken nose, slowly sitting up in what feels like a void. There’s nothing to sense and no noise but his own until a long, low whistle sounds from not two paces behind him.

“Oof, that hurt.”

He startles violently. “Who the fuck?” he half-yells, scrabbling back hard and fast then slamming into the base of another statue. Though solid at first, it shifts under his weight. There’s no warning before strong hands are under his armpits, helping Izuna to his feet. Without pausing to assess the situation, he lets instinct drive him into folding himself in half, letting his captor take his weight, and kicking up. His heel clips a thick veil of hair and he manages to land an elbow strike powerful enough to snap ribs before an arm like an iron pole wraps around his chest. 

“Easy!” Izuna’s anonymous benefactor chides. “No need to get so worked up. You looked a little lost. I figured you could use some help getting around.”

Looked lost?

Izuna can’t feel the warmth of a torch, nor hear the crackling of fire in bracers. It’s probably pitch black around them and this asshole talks like he can see. By the Sage, Izuna will swallow his own katon jutsu before admitting that the elders were right about something. Still, they might have had a point this time because there’s an extra set of hands settling on his waist and the warm, solid presence of a tail coiling around his calf.

Shit.

“Some help getting around?” Izuna repeats, voice ratcheting up in register. “From the idiot who turns people into decorations?” 

In moments like these, it’s easy to see how he and Madara are related—no self-preservation skills to speak of, a healthy set of lungs, and enough power to justify both. Except that he has no idea where he is or what he’s facing. For all intents and purposes, he’s at this thing’s mercy. 

Laughter booms loud enough to make him flinch, too close and too boisterous with his nerves already on edge. The solid chest against his back shudders with it even as palms smooth the wrinkles from his sleeves and support his wrists at the cuff. For all that it comes off as casual, Izuna can tell the position is calculated to keep his weapons out of reach. 

“Maybe,” the voice replies, amused. “Depends on who’s asking.” He strokes the back of Izuna’s hands with claw-tipped thumbs. “So…who’s asking?”

This had better not be a goblin situation where he says his name and some magic nonsense makes him start going around spewing dance magic and stealing babies, or however that goes. The folklore his brother loves has all run together over the years and he can't recall anything concrete.

Even if he could, he’s fairly certain that he couldn’t kill a wild pig, much less a basilisk in this Sage-damned temple.

Fuck it. 

He wriggles his nose to make sure it’s set and discretely wipes a warm trail of blood away on his collar. 

“Uchiha Izuna. I’m from the clan that sits at the foot of your mountain.” The admission of his name is clipped, but he manages to affect an aura of confidence after that. “My brother’s missing and I have it on good authority that he’s fucked off somewhere around here. By ‘good authority’, I mean mine. And by ‘fucked off’ I mean I was the only one born with brains in our family and he left on a mission without consulting me first,” he spouts glibly as he shifts to test for a reaction.

Not unsurprisingly, his captor moves with him, never loosening his grasp.

“Huh,” the basilisk—because with the rasp of scales and massive snake tail this can be nothing else—grunts. “Izuna. That’s a nice name.” There’s a beat of silence as he shifts even closer, pulling Izuna’s arms up to rest on shoulders that are too high and too broad to be anything but disconcerting. He urges Izuna to interlace his fingers behind his neck before leaning down, obviously familiar with the threat of hand seals.

“I’ll make sure to remember it.”

Izuna’s heart leaps into his throat. That doesn’t bode well at all. 

“Listen, I’m not trying to cause you any trouble or interfere in,” he pauses, “whatever it is you have going on here. I just want my Nii-san.” The set of hands not stroking his exposed forearms plucks at his obi. A moment later, his kunai fall to the ground with a damning tinkle, followed by the clatter of his tanto.

“You know, that would be a lot more believable if you weren’t armed. You’re good at playing like your harmless and you definitely packed lighter than the rest of the hunters, but I wasn’t hatched yesterday,” the basilisk says, rubbing his cheek against Izuna’s hair.

Despite the danger, the blatant condescension pisses Izuna off. There’s not a shinobi alive who can match him in obfuscation. He wasn’t even _trying_.

“Okay, sure. You caught me, whatever. But, I’m not here as a Sage-damned hunter. Five seconds ago I didn’t even know you existed,” he snaps. Five seconds ago he was going to be the hero of this story, rescue the jade princess—Madara—and live happily ever after in the shadow of his brother. Five seconds ago, he had a future.

Scales lift and settle in a wave under his sweaty palms.

“Really? That’s what you’re going with?” There’s a note of disappointment. “Knives. Swords. You even did the whole blindfold thing. Like you humans haven’t tried this,” the creature tugs on Izuna’s wrap with his teeth and abruptly wrenches it off, “before.”

A pause. A long exhale.

“Oh, that was really rude of me,” the creature says, abashed and oddly hesitant all of a sudden. The grip on Izuna’s wrists squeezes once in warning, then the creature lets go and abruptly slides down out of the loop of his arms to slither a tight coil on the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” he says with feeling, his dry touch returning to Izuna’s face this time. “Um, I’m Hashirama.”

The familiar sensation of linen slips down over Izuna’s eyes, followed by the soft caress of claws as Hashirama slides his bangs free. Huh, who would have thought that snake-men could feel awkward in the face of injury the same as regular people.

Izuna knows what he looks like—well, knows what his features feel like, at least. It’s not pretty. A katon accident during training took the top half of his face and scalp and, even though the medics were able to graft skin and regrow hair, he still bears the marks of it. Where his eyes once were there are only mounds of scar tissue. It was a long recovery, made all the more agonizing having to gloss over his own hurts to assuage his Nii-san’s guilt. Not that he would ever tell him that.

He wears the wrap more for Madara’s sake than his own. It seems Hashirama is equally as disquieted by the aftermath. 

“It’s fine,” he replies, forcing the tension to ease from his shoulders. Shinobi instincts flare in his breast, but this isn’t a situation he’ll be able to fight his way out of. “I’m blind and I can’t sense shit in here for some reason.” The admission costs him nothing and from Hashirama’s muted “oh,” garners him a surge of sympathy. Laying it on thick seems to be the way to go.

“I just really need my brother. After I lost my eyes...Madara is all I have left.”

A sharp hiss steals any further explanation and has him backpedaling a step in alarm. Not that it gets him far. Hashirama’s multitudinous palms cup his face and settle on his hips as his spring-soft breath blows against his brow.

“Wait, Madara? Uchiha Madara is your brother? Thank the shinigami!” he exclaims, though it’s more an expulsion of air than sound. A deep inhale, and suddenly Izuna is being assaulted by a wall of words and a constrictor’s hug.

“He isn’t nearly as sweet as you are! Crashed right through my favorite statuary, nearly burnt my scales off, and then he tried to steal from Tobi’s fountain—Tobirama is my precious otouto—something about righting a wrong he’d done. Humans think the fountain can heal stuff, even though that’s me, not the water. But, I didn’t really pay much attention because that’s when Tobi started yelling, then Madara started yelling, and everything kind of went to hell.”

Hashirama buries his face into Izuna’s hair and holds him tighter, voice ratcheting up into a wail. As if this situation couldn’t get any more terrifying.

“My otouto tried to turn your brother to stone, but he keeps throwing off the spell, so they’ve been having little spats every couple of days. This morning they weren’t even arguing about anything, just calling each other names! Can you _please_ make him leave?”

Izuna blanches.


	30. Gen- Puppet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, hey, Madara! Long time no see!” Hashirama exclaims from where he’s comfortably ensconced in a pile of pillows, a young child with two-tone hair battling his hands so as not to be tickled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Gen  
Theme: Puppet  
Rating: M
> 
> Warnings for character death off-screen and mild body horror.

Tobirama has always been a mystery—too reserved, formal in situations that don’t call for it, coiled so tightly that Madara wonders when the tension will release and whether they’ll survive the inevitable explosion.

The thing is, it never comes. Even when they put Hashirama’s body to rest in the ground on a late winter morning. 

The whole of Konoha had mourned the passing of the first Hokage. Too young, too soon. Yet Tobirama, the brother of his blood, was the only one not in attendance for his funeral. When Madara found him later that afternoon in his office he’d simply said that there was paperwork to be done and that his presence wasn’t necessary. He would see Hashirama that night at dinner, misoshiru, tsukemono, and shrimp tempura, if Madara was curious.

They’d had to replace the entire floor of offices once Madara finished unleashing decades of pent up frustrations on the glib asshole with a shinigami’s smile. Not that Tobirama was injured in the blast, of course. He would have to be human and not a demon wearing a person’s skin to be struck down so easily.

After that, Madara ignored him completely and focused on organizing the rebuilding of the tower, on doing his best to fill the hat that Hashirama left behind. Izuna tried to ameliorate the situation, attempted to sooth his brother’s ire and bridge the gap between the two of them so that they could at least pretend to have a united front when faced with the rigors of political maneuverings. 

He was never successful, but he did try.

Madara’s only respite from the hatred bubbling in his chest came when Tobirama took his leave of the village to spend a month in Suna. Something about needing to learn better control to emulate autonomy. Whatever it was, Madara didn’t deign to so much as nod understanding or watch his retreating back.

To top it all off, the callous, unfeeling bastard had the audacity to return instead of leaving his bleached bones to decorate the desert.

Fuck Senju Tobirama. The wrong brother died that day so long ago.

Grinding his teeth, Madara stares down over his steepled fingers at the drafted list of administrative appointments for the new shinobi academy. This isn’t his project, not entirely. Even as Hokage, he knows that he needs input from the one man with more knowledge on the subject—the one man he hates above all others. His nostrils flare on an inhale a moment before he tears off his spectacles and rockets up to his feet. Shrieking in protest as it’s slammed forward, the desk catches on a knot in the floorboard and sends brushes and scrolls tumbling over the side. 

As much as it rankles, he needs additional information before he can approve the blasted thing.

Madara sweeps past the mess and thunders through the tower like the second coming of the Sage. Let them fear him, because there’s no telling whether this night will culminate in bloodshed. Civilians and jounin alike scatter before him, pressing up against the walls and leaping into open doorways to avoid his fire and brimstone glare.

As soon as the night air kisses the sweat from his forehead, he pools chakra into his feet and leaps. The village passes in a blur as he takes to the rooftops in his single-minded determination. Right, left, right, left—he allows the metronomic quality of his footfalls to ease his temper until it’s a slow boil and not the raging conflagration it was in the tower. Perhaps he'll make it through this without laying his hands on the White Demon in anger. Possibly.

Tobirama’s house sits on the outskirts of the village, just beyond the wall. It had been designed thus since the beginning and, despite the lack of fortifications around it, has never once fallen to the waves of shinobi that have thought to charge their gates or scale their walls. It’s such a small, perfect target—one of the most powerful shinobi living alone and exposed—but it’s as pristine as the first day Hashirama erected it with his bare hands.

Any enemy nin who managed to make it inside were always found dead and wound-free come morning. Konoha shinobi simply assumed that the Lord Senju’s wards were too vicious to broach. Oddly enough, Madara senses none.

Ill at ease, he knocks on the frame of the shoji screen and looks back into the darkness of the woods. There’s a few distinct voices upraised in laughter, rising and falling, then the slap of bare feet across hardwood. 

“Hokage-sama?” Tobirama greets him with a note of confusion. “I wasn’t aware you were coming by.” He tilts his head, raising one perfect brow before shrugging off his incertitude and motioning for Madara to enter. “Please, come in. Kawarama is setting the table for tea. I hope that sencha will suit, though I believe I have genmaicha as well if you’d rather.”

Though still formal, Tobirama’s easy camaraderie takes him aback. He stands tall next to the sliding screen, yet the casual trousers and open-front shirt make him seem smaller, more settled in his fish-belly skin. If Madara weren’t already questioning his own sanity, he’d say the Senju looked…happy.

He wants to ask who the fuck Kawarama is and why that name sounds familiar, but manages to swallow his tongue and shove the sheaf of papers against Tobirama’s chest instead.

“I’m not staying. I just need you to review these and make whatever corrections you see fit.”

Nodding, Tobirama accepts the packet and walks further into the hall with a loping, predatory ease. “Of course, of course. Please, come in and say hello while I update the list,” he says, already unbinding the sheets of paper and perusing them with the same intensity he puts into his fuinjutsu.

Madara watches the sway of his narrow hips and wonders when Tobirama managed to remove the stick from his ass. He follows a moment later, after he hears the telltale shuffling of knees against tatami mats and knows that the beast will be too preoccupied with his work to interact. 

When he rounds the corner, his breath leaves him.

No.

_No_.

Tears begin to well, unbidden, as the Sharingan roars to life—to immortalize the moment, to call upon the Susanoo and destroy everything within a five league radius. He doesn’t know. He can’t do anything but blink rapidly and fight for air that won’t come.

“Oh, hey, Madara! Long time no see!” Hashirama exclaims from where he’s comfortably ensconced in a pile of pillows, a young child with two-tone hair battling his hands so as not to be tickled. His hair hangs long, thick, and well-groomed around a face that has graced both Madara’s fondest dreams and worst nightmares. There’s a kerchief tied around his throat with little anthropomorphized kunai printed across it, each with a different silly expression. Beneath it Madara knows there should be an ugly wound where Hashirama slit his own throat down to the spine. It makes no sense.

None of this _makes sense_.

“Does your friend need to sit down?” another young boy asks as he finishes adding a fifth tea cup to the four already served. “He doesn’t look too hot.”

Tobirama hums and waves absently at the remaining cushions around the chabudai. “I offered,” he mutters, never once taking his eyes from his work.

Madara sobs, a quiet, broken thing. Digging his fingers into his hair and dragging his nails along his scalp does nothing more than draw up blood. The genjutsu doesn’t crack with the pain—and it has to be one. It _has_ to.

Hashirama is here wearing the same gray pallor he donned for his deathbed. In his lap, another of his younger brothers—Itama he knows now—curls up close with only one stub of a leg, the other riddled with worm holes and smiling despite his sightless, white eyes. Kawarama. Sage above, Kawarama frowns at him, one hand on his hip and an angry, red Uchiwa carved into his forehead.

“Yo, dumb dumb. How about you save the waterworks and sit down before you pass out?”

His chest feels heavy and blood pulses in his ears. Madara collapses to his knees, clutching his face and screaming into his palms as his forehead touches the floor. No wonder Tobirama never mourned. No wonder he floats through the day as if he’s a ghost waiting to return home.

For him, his family never left.


	31. TobiIzu- Spider (Part 2 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Yōkai blood in Tobirama’s veins thrums in time with Izuna’s heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Tobirama/Izuna  
Theme: Spider  
Rating: T
> 
> Warning for weird spider shit? Slight body horror. 
> 
> **Part 1**: <https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898752/chapters/49682228>

The Yōkai blood in Tobirama’s veins thrums in time with Izuna’s steady heartbeat—loud, close, and begging to be pumped full of venom.

Salivating, he snaps out his hand so fast it blurs, latching onto Izuna’s wrist and sinking his bristles in to hold him there. He pants with the knowledge of the satiation to come, knowing that devouring the Uchiha heir-apparent will be well worth whatever wrath will follow in the wake of his death.

The telltale burn of his tattoos expanding means that the change is about to take place in earnest and there’s some pleasure to be had in the way Izuna’s lips fall slack.

Fangs unfurl from within his mouth, causing his lips to stretch tight and crinkle at the corners. Wicked hooks half a handspan long for the fang alone and fitted on chelicera as snow-white as his hair. He swallows repeatedly as the spinnerets beneath his tongue begin to weep, freed from the pressure that keeps them dormant. Soon. Soon they’ll be primed and ready to bind Izuna tighter than a lover until he liquefies under Tobirama's tender regard and all of that goodness can be sucked out sweeter than boba tea.

Tobirama has waited nearly twenty years for this. Twenty times he’s woken up in a cold sweat, alone and naked in the forest with only a desiccated corpse for company. Regardless of the faces his victims wear, the phantom taste of Izuna is always on his tongue. Smokey, smooth, and everything addictive.

Another set of eyes peels open just above his brows, blinking against the brightness and affording Tobirama a view from four separate angles. There’s no more reigning back the monster within. That point is well past.

Now he’ll know for certain if the real thing measures up to his fevered imaginings.

Now, he _feeds_.

Surging forward, Tobirama clicks his mandibles then spreads them so wide the red seam along his chin splits. His lower jaw bisects and gapes open to afford him a larger bite. He knows how monstrous he looks like this—has used that first moment of shock to his advantage many a time. However, before Tobirama can offer the gift of his venom, Izuna collects himself and very pointedly doesn’t pull away. The lack of a reaction draws Tobirama up short. Nostrils flaring, he slams his free hand against the desk and aborts his momentum, making the desk shriek as it slides back under his weight.

Izuna smiles up at him—all boyish innocence. “Nice to see you too, Snowflake. All done with the theatrics?” he prompts. There’s not a trace of fear in him. The easy, relaxed way he eases over the desk between them to rest on his elbows has Tobirama’s hackles rising. “I need that budget sometime today,” he continues, sounding far too amused. 

A challenge? A _dare? _Humans aren’t supposed to stand against him. They aren’t supposed to roll their eyes and _smirk_.

Rippling back in a smooth wave, Tobirama abruptly wrenches Izuna across the desk with impossible strength. Ink and brushes go flying, spattering against the floor like arterial spray. There’s a moment where Izuna’s confidence seems to flicker and Tobirama thinks that he may get that human fear response he so craves after all—the wafting scent of denial, sharp and redolent with the tang of apple vinegar.

But then his prey has the audacity to laugh.

Light, tinkling peals so unlike Izuna's usual guffaws. “Fine. I was lying. I don’t actually need the reports until tomorrow morning. Whatever,” he drawls, grinning with far too many teeth, lying supine and watching Tobirama from upside down. Long black hair frames his face in a halo and pools just shy of the furrows Tobirama’s claws dig into the solid oak. “You don’t need to get your web in a twist over it.”

Tobirama’s breath hitches. “Excuse me?” 

This isn’t how prey should act. Never once has a human done anything other than quail before him when the Yōkai within grew too restless to be contained. Many blooded shinobi have fallen to their knees, crying or shitting themselves in terror at his might. Particularly now, on the summer solstice, when the day grows long and his Yōkai blood sings with it. They cannot abide seeing the predator in their midst. The massive fangs waving at the corners of his mouth, the restless pedipalps on his cheekbones, and the completely red eyes with ancestral markings flowing away like the trails of tears.

He is the folkloric wolf sleeping soundly in Konoha’s bed.

And he is owed a meal.

Izuna obviously missed that tale’s recounting.

“You heard me, Tobi,” he says, reaching up to run his knuckles down Tobirama’s stomach and tug on the trailing ends of his obi.

The touch isn’t welcome. And maybe if he keeps telling himself that, Tobirama will eventually believe it.

“Shut-up,” he hisses, barely able to articulate the p with his lips stretched so wide around his fangs. “And don’t call me that.” The last thing he wants is for the flavor of his meal to be tainted by Izuna’s bullshit. Especially since confusion has already put a damper on the pleasure to come. Irritated, he tosses his head, arms splitting lengthwise and elongating as he moves to scramble up onto the desk and end this farce by sinking his fangs in.

“Subvert expectations and die silently!” 

Again, Izuna laughs—breathy and thick. Between heartbeats, he spins in place on his back and lashes up with a devastating kick too fast to follow. The tip of his sandal catches Tobirama’s happuri and sets it flying across the room with a clatter.

“There we go, gorgeous,” he croons, because obviously Uchiha blindness has set in early. “It’s a shame to hide such a beautiful face all the time.”

Tobirama pauses, eyes wide and pedipalps working the air viciously. His hesitation costs him. Another powerful blow, this one glancing off of his collarbone, has him falling back and stumbling over his own half-transformed limbs. An extra set of segmented arms tears through the fabric of his kimono to catch himself in time. Still, the chair fractures between the hardness of his chitinous back and the equally unforgiving floor. Long, spider-like arms splay wide as he snarls, completely taken aback and sprawled on a throne of wood splinters. Izuna is quickly turning from worthy prey to threat. It’s worrisome in ways Tobirama has never had to consider before, has him shuffling back a pace.

Izuna spins on his hip and sits up, calm and collected as he tugs at the neckline of his kimono. “Mmm,” he hums, “so pretty. But, as delicious as you look, Tobi-ra-ma…” His layers of clothing gape wide as he playfully lets the rich, blue fabric slide down his shoulders to reveal a strong chest and the lovely red hourglass tattooed on his stomach. Darkness begins to seep up around the design and spread across his skin with the slow inevitability of the tide.

Tobirama can't look away.

Dragging his teeth across his lower lip, Izuna traces the portentous outline with an elongating fingernail, never breaking eye contact. “…this isn’t a game I’ll let you win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this was going to be more fleshed out, but that seemed like a decent stopping point. I like leaving things open ended. lol 
> 
> Thanks for reading the horror anthology! You guys have been incredibly supportive throughout and it's been a fun ride. I'll try to answer all of your comments in the near future. <3 Thanks again!


	32. MadaTobiIzu- Possession (Part 2 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in his life, Tobirama is well and truly content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: MadaTobiIzu  
Rating: E  
Warnings: Stockholm Syndrome leik whoa. Is it incest if your brother is dead and possessing the guy you're fucking? Because if so, that. All of the consent issues that come with being possessed. ‾\\_(ツ)_/‾

Madara is a genuinely good man, Tobirama finds.

Another year into Tobirama's odd awakening and things have settled enough for him to appreciate the comforts around him. Long days spent in the company of a colleague and passionate nights wrapped in the arms of a man who’s become both lover and friend. An intellectual equal with fire in his heart.

Tobirama has learned to cherish this irascible husband of his with single-minded devotion. Too, Izuna’s guidance has allowed him to win that same dedication for himself in return. It’s a feat he never could have managed on his own, and one that has led to nothing but pleasant things.

He can’t recall why he was so vehemently opposed to giving up his autonomy.

Uchiha Izuna was right to take him over.

_Of course I was right_, Izuna scoffs, a permanent presence, oily and slick where he presses up against Tobirama’s soul. _I’m always right. If you had just listened, we could have pried that stick out of your ass a long time ago_.

“Quiet, brat. You enjoyed the challenge,” Tobirama quips back with a note of fondness. All he gets in return is an unflattering laugh and a particularly hard prod in their shared head-space. _So what if I did? _They both know Izuna wouldn’t have enjoyed his work half so much if Tobirama hadn’t fought him tooth and nail every step of the way.

In the end, Izuna’s judgment was sound. There’s no need to resist anymore. Tobirama’s only concern now is to love and be loved in turn, to carry on for both of his precious people—the brothers who know him best.

He tilts his head back to rest against the lip of the wooden tub, luxuriating in the heavy feel of his own palm where it cups the curve of his throat. The alien feel of having control wrested away by a force not his own no longer startles. It’s commonplace for Izuna to touch him with hands that feel like a stranger’s, to forcibly close his eyes and whisper sweet nothings when they’re alone. And more recently when Madara slides into their bed at night.

Into them.

Clever fingers pinch his thighs where the skin is soft, adding bite to the already excessive temperature of the water. Tobirama knows his face is flushed from more than heat alone.

“Ah! Again,” he demands, knowing that he has no real power to make Izuna do anything. Luckily, in this, his lovely parasite is willing to grant his requests.

_A parasite, am I?_ Izuna asks with nothing but good humor. _And here I’ve been so sweet to you. _

A particularly cruel pinch and twist has Tobirama arching out of the water with his lips stretched taut around the shape of a scream, silent though Izuna makes him. He pants shallowly as the pain recedes, arching again when the cruel treatment continues—up the crease of his thigh, across his abdomen, and settling on his already sore nipples.

“I-Izuna,” he gasps, weightlessly rutting in the water and only succeeding in wetting the floor. Again, the sharp stab of Izuna’s amusement has him slamming his head back against the rim of the tub. He knows he’s supposed to go easy on this body of his, that Madara dislikes it when he’s hurt unnecessarily. But the hands stroking his puppet strings know precisely how to drive him to madness. Izuna is unrelenting. He fits Tobirama’s hand around his own throat and slots his fingers into the depressions beneath his jaw where their rabbit-pulse is strongest. A warning squeeze—gentle, through still enough to feel—and the other hand slides back down under the water to settle between his spread legs.

_It’s shameful how much you want this_, Izuna jibes.

Tobirama vehemently disagrees. There’s no shame in giving himself up to the man who’s claimed not only his soul, but also half of his heart. Izuna’s fingers twitch against his hole, already slick with the bathing butter Madara uses for his unruly hair. 

_Fuck, Snowflake. You need to warn me before you think things like that_.

Tobirama starts to laugh breathlessly, then breaks on a low, deep groan as Izuna slips two fingers in where he’s still loose from being bent over Madara’s desk only an hour ago. His thoughts turn fuzzy, focusing on the coolness of the air on his shoulders in relation to the forge-hot warmth around him. The unhurried slide of knuckles pressing in deep, discovering the extent to which he’s been filled with spend.

Judging by the laser focus of Izuna’s intent—the way his fingers begin to curve and piston in earnest—he likes what he finds. 

Tobirama’s growing erection bobs rhythmically in the water and he has to dig in his heels to keep from being pushed back by the force of his own wrist slamming down. In. His lips hang slack as a slew of lurid noises are punched out of him.

_Yes, yes, yes_, Izuna hisses like a mantra in time with his thrusts.

When Tobirama instinctively tries to close his legs against the overwhelming pleasure, control is wrenched away from him and his knees fly apart. As punishment, all he’s left with is the ability to arch his back and whip his head until wet hair is plastered to his face, effectively blinding him. The sensation of raw, repeatedly bullied nerves has his already swollen cock leaking into the bath water.

Too far gone to realize he’s not alone, the addition of another set of hands settling on his knees makes him jolt and call out wordlessly.

“Couldn’t wait for me, hmm?” Madara’s smooth baritone rolls over him, full-bodied and rich. If not for Izuna’s quick handling, he likely would have found his release right then and there.

“Ah,” Tobirama gasps, unable to bring himself down enough to come up with a more cogent response. “Koi-koibito.” The endearment breaks on another hitched breath. Izuna echoes his desire, but as usual, his control is flawless. “Stop teasing and get in me already,” he commands with Tobirama’s mouth, dragging his teeth along his bottom lip for emphasis and releasing his throat to reach for Madara instead.

There’s a loud splash as displaced water surges over the rim of the tub and then Madara’s broad body is on him, around him, repositioning his thighs around an equally thick waist.

“Sage, you’re so beautiful. Can you feel what you do to me?” Madara groans, frotting his generous cock against the back of Tobirama’s hand, the protruding vein catching across his knuckles. Being able to have this glorious powerhouse of a man will forever be a joy that leaves Tobirama stunned. How he could ever deserve this is beyond him.

_Hush. No self-deprecation allowed. You know you were made for us_, Izuna interjects, spreading his fingers wide and helping to guide his brother’s weeping tip between them. Water is typically a gross disservice during sex, but the viscosity of the bathing butter proves to be a gift from the Sage in counteracting the friction.

Madara pistons his hips just enough to ease in and catch his glans on the tips of Tobirama’s fingers. The stretch at his rim is divine, but the emptiness beyond is devastating.

“Madara, _please_. Must I beg?” Tobirama calls out of his own volition.

He’s rewarded with a bright flush of approval from within.

“Never,” Madara snarls, abruptly surging forward and tearing out a short, sharp scream as Tobirama is filled in one powerful thrust. It’s too much—too hot, too girthy, too_ good_.

Fortunately, Izuna is there to soothe him. _Shhh. You can take it. We both know you can. And this time I want you to close your eyes and think of me,_ he croons, oddly intense.

Madara hooks his arms beneath Tobirama’s knees and spreads him as wide as the tub will allow, folding his body and slamming into him relentlessly. There's no build-up, no hesitation. The passion they coaxed to life in Madara's office continues as if it never ended. Water sloshes violently around them and it’s all Tobirama can do to hold onto his husband’s shoulders with the renewed control of his arms.

Fire-bright desire already begins to coil in his gut, making his toes curl reflexively. One look at Madara’s handsome face screwed up in pleasure will likely push him over the edge. Even so, he keeps his eyes tightly closed and listens for Izuna’s continued direction.

_Yes! Yes, you’re doing so well. Picture me. I know you remember. This is my cock splitting you in half._ A particularly brutal thrust makes their connection falter before it returns in force. _These are my hips bruising your ass. I’m going to ruin you, Senju Tobirama. I’m going to ruin you for everyone! And I want you to scream my name when I do._

Tobirama struggles not to come just yet. There’s a low, keening moan above him that tells him Madara is close. Soon, but not yet. And as much as he wants to give Izuna everything, he won’t hurt his husband by calling out the name of another man. .

Izuna laughs. _Don’t worry about that, Nii-san likes it when we share. Why do you think he set you up to handle my ashes in the first place?_

Ah, the sealed urn he had been relegated to move when they first transferred their belongings into the village. So that’s how Izuna was able to anchor to him. It doesn’t particularly matter at this point, but he had wondered.

_The only reason I haven’t been this involved so far is because you needed time to get used to the idea. We did everything for you. All for you, Snowflake._

Madara forgoes his hold on Tobirama’s legs in favor of bracing against the edges of the tub so hard they creak. Tobirama can’t help but to wrap him up and press them flush so that Madara's wide chest provides a delicious friction against the bruises Izuna pinched into his skin. His husband is a gift—Izuna as well. And when Tobirama finally releases between his and Madara’s stomachs, he does so with both brothers' names called out one right after the other.

_Yes!_ Izuna crows. 

Madara slams in deep not a second later and roars his own victory.


	33. Gen- Something in the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Centuries of sacrifice all for naught and Madara has only himself to blame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** None  
**Rating:** M  
**Theme:** Tumblr prompt (Horror prompt: Madara becomes aware that there's... something... in the fire. Any fire, but Uchiha-chakra-caused fires have the something be more clearly visible.)  
**Warnings:** Major character death, possession, non-graphic descriptions of injury, disjointed perceptions in the narrative (because...dying...lol)

Water sluices past his ankles as Madara stands in the shallows of the Nakano and tilts his face up towards the rain. The drops sting, each one a reminder that he’s stayed here too long. And it’s true. He should have died by his own hand a long time ago.

Now he will pass speared through by the sword of a man he once called friend.

Time slows until the fog of his breath hangs suspended about his head like a shroud. The world falls silent but for the strong, slow beat of his heart as it drowns out all other noise. In this odd, liminal moment—blinded by pain and numb with the chill of it—he can’t help but think of his clan and the legacy he’s unintentionally left in ruins.

He must be close to bleeding out now, or at least hallucinating from the shock because those thoughts hover on the edge of hearing, narrated by Tobirama’s rich, familiar baritone. It’s fitting that the condemnation should come from the one Senju who never saw Madara’s clan as anything other than a threat.

“For generations, the Uchiha have perpetuated the misconception that overuse or maturation of the Sharingan leads to optic deterioration,” Tobirama’s voice states factually and without inflection. “Tales regarding the side-effects of their ocular prowess were largely exaggerated, passed down by a thousand strategically seeded lies until the suggestion gained traction throughout Fire Country. Bloodline thieves began to target the young as a result, but greater tragedy was avoided through their sacrifice.”

Madara gags. Whether from the metallic bloom of copper rising up his throat or the stranglehold of failure, he doesn’t know. Centuries of sacrifice all for naught and he has only himself to blame. 

Tutting at the momentary lapse of attention, Tobirama adds tooth to his words—a sharpness that digs into Madara’s already grievous wounds. “The Mangekyō is a tool like any other, blunted with continual use, but easily rehoned. There was never a danger to its use in the conventional sense, though caution had to be exercised.”

Caution indeed. His ocular maturation came at the price of his eldest brother’s life—a good soldier and passable sibling, if not overly kind. Though he couldn’t fault the sentry for garroting an enemy infiltrator on Senju lands, Madara has never forgiven that nameless shinobi for the horrors he’s been forced to see as a result. White eyes cracking open in the heart of the hearth. Fingers of flame, reaching, reaching—

“When evolved sufficiently, the Sharingan functions as a tear in the veil between worlds. The Uchiha’s power comes from invoking the might of the unknown entities that live within that divide. Despite extensive research, there is not a definitive answer as to what lies beyond, though the vector of possession is almost always fire.”

Another sharp push, another half a meter of steel and Tobirama’s voice wavers just long enough for Madara to lose the trail of conversation. It doesn’t matter, though, he knows what comes next. Has lived it. With repeated use, the Mangekyō allows the user to see beyond the katon jutsu they cast. Eyes, teeth, limbs—all embedded in the flames, too grotesque to remember distinctly, as if recalling the shape of the _Otherness_ would incite madness or summon the thing fully. Though, sometimes despite all efforts to guard the pass, its sickly taint would seep through. “Amaterasu” they called it, as if that nightmare made flesh had anything to do with anything that walked in the sunlight.

Madara knows he should have stopped and allowed himself to fall before his katon turned black. All Uchiha knew not to stretch the veil’s seam, not to invite the _Other_ into their world. But Hashirama had pushed him so hard—had brought to bear all of the might of the forest—and in his anger, Madara had pushed back.

There’s the phantom sensation of fingers beneath his chin, tilting his face up to meet two bright points of red. Red like the Sharingan. Red like blood. For a brief instance, Madara forgets he's only a hallucination.

“At the first lick of black flame, many Uchiha would pull themselves from battle rotations,” Tobirama continues, his breath hot and smelling of smoldering forest loam. “They would abruptly cast aside their martial talents in favor of taking up a more tangible yoke—bringing their strength to bear in tilling the fields, using their callus-rough hands to wield hammers and fold steel. Veterans were never maligned for their retirement no matter the age at which they stepped down. Some of the more powerful shinobi chose to take their own lives instead of risking a misstep—battle-hardened warriors like Uchiha Izuna, the man who would rather allow himself to be run-through by a respected enemy than fall to the machinations of the darkness of the _Other_.” There’s an odd inflection on the word “Other” this time, something slick, oily, and sly.

Regardless, between the pain of Hashirama’s hilt finally slamming up against his spine and the stark reminder of a brother Madara will never see again, he doesn’t catch the change. Izuna. Sage above, he should have followed his brother’s example before it was too late. 

Five hundred years of careful guardianship all made impotent by a moment of passion and betrayal. 

“Though, in death, Uchiha Izuna and the clanmates who came before could not have foreseen how their influence would come to alter the_ Other’s_ perceptions. The Uchiha’s love of clan and home above all else was alien, provocative in its novelty. The _Other_ sympathized with the Uchiha’s need to consume, and grew to want that same tinder. It waited. Observed. Learned.” Slowly, Tobirama’s tone and cadence shift. His voice rises in register, gains a rougher quality as if voiced by a throat carved out by fire.

From behind, strong arms wrap around Madara’s shoulders and ease him to his knees in the current. The cold shock of water flooding through his pants is enough to make him jerk in Hashirama’s gentle hold, but his dangerously sluggish pulse and wavering vision keeps him pliant.

“Relax,” Hashirama crackles as he nuzzles into the mass of Madara’s hair, noses aside wet clumps to press a kiss to his neck, forge-hot and branding. “I will protect our, no, _my_ village. No matter what. I will not forgive anyone who threatens the village. Be they a friend, a sibling, or even my own child,” he continues with all the conviction and inevitability of a conflagration.

Darkness finally takes Madara’s eyesight completely, leaving him open to the mild ache of skipping stones pressing into his knees and the solidity of his erstwhile friend and confidant awkwardly wrapped around the protruding hilt of his sword. The warm blanket of blood is oddly comforting, though not enough to distract from the strangeness of the proclamation. 

“You’ve changed, Hashirama,” Madara murmurs with the last of his breath. “Ultimately, it shall someday lead the village into darkness.” He tries for another shallow inhale, but there’s too much blood. He’s drowning in it.

“Oh, no, Seal-Breaker. Rest assured, I will guide this village of mine into the light. Thank you for gifting me such a fine vessel. I assure you I’ll use it well.” 

The last thing he hears is a quiet laugh, half-Tobirama, half-Hashirama, and all _Other_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tl;dr - Madara pushed his sharingan too far, tore open the veil, and made it so that Hashirama got possessed, all the while hallucinating due to blood loss. Good job, Mads!


	34. TobiIzu- Ancient and eldritch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s never seen this shinobi before—tall, sharp featured, and pallid as the hand of the shinigami.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Tobirama/Izuna  
Rating: M  
Theme: Ancient and eldritch  
Warnings: Body horror, implied kidnapping

“Who the hell are you?” Izuna snarls, only barely managing to dodge a blow aimed for his eyes.

He’s never seen this shinobi before—tall, sharp featured, and pallid as the hand of the shinigami. Everything about him is an aberration compared to the typical burnished and burly Senju prototype. Bawdy jokes around the campfire often circle back to how they’re all built like trees with enough wood between them that there’s never risk of an empty belly. This bastard isn’t like that, though. He’s honed for speed, not strength, and the red eyes that unflinchingly lock onto Izuna’s are as red as the Sharingan.

“You well know who I am, Uchiha,” the man retorts primly, swinging his katana with seasoned alacrity.

Again, Izuna avoids the whistling blade by the skin of his teeth. A healthy smattering of luck is the only reason he hasn’t been gutted a dozen times over since the skirmish began all of ten minutes ago.

“I well the fuck don’t,” he argues in a voice higher pitched than he’d like. Another swipe, this time down low, has him scrambling back lest he lose another few precious centimeters of height. “I think I’d remember fighting a white demon!” 

All of a sudden, the vicious advance of steel and chakra stops. The man tilts his head, perplexed, and watches as Izuna cautiously puts another meter of distance between them. Condensation from a dwindling suiton jutsu drips from his fingers to be swallowed by the dry, thirsty ground.

“White demon,” he repeats, brow furrowed. Something odd flits across his face, something almost like interest.

It’s hard for Izuna to tell, though. Panting for breath, he leans over to rest a hand on his knee and look up at the monstrous shinobi from beneath sweat-damp bangs. Around them the sound of battle rages on—grunts of effort, ringing steel, and the clarion call of Senju Hashirama’s voice floating strong above it all. No matter how evenly matched Madara and the Senju head are, the power dynamic has suddenly and irrevocably shifted in the Senju’s favor with the addition of this new powerhouse. He wonders if he’ll have the chance to tell his Nii-san that he’s changed his mind, that they really should accept the offer of peace no matter what disadvantage the capitulation will bring them in negotiations. Surviving the day is his first priority, but then… 

“Interesting that you can see me properly,” the pale nightmare states, casually sheathing his katana as if Izuna doesn’t pose enough of a threat to maintain his guard. “And your memories have remained unaltered. An immunity to the spores, perhaps.”

What that means, Izuna has no idea and doesn’t want to find out. With the call for retreat on his lips, he sucks in a great gout of air only to lose it all under the driving pressure of a fist he never sees approach. Desperately mouthing for breath that won’t come, he curls over his spasming diaphragm and clutches at his enemy’s wrist. The skin is tepid and rough, like bark, and every bit as immune to Izuna’s scraping nails.

“None of that, Uchiha.”

A firm grip on the back of Izuna’s neck keeps him in place, half-slumped over the man’s forearm. How disappointing to be rendered impotent by taijutsu of all things.

“I am Senju Tobirama, last living brother to Hashirama and your long-established foil in battle. We have quite the history together,” Tobirama states, the line rote and devoid of any sort of character.

If Izuna weren’t so busy suffocating at the behest of his own traitorous body, he’d laugh at the piss-poor delivery. Even so, he has enough spite stored up to pop his lips on a b and force out the remaining air through his teeth. “Bu-shit,” he manages.

With a huff of laughter, Tobirama reclaims his fist and lets gravity take Izuna to his knees. “Interesting,” he repeats, stepping out of Izuna’s periphery. The ground crunches as he comes to a stop behind him.

The position is dangerous beyond measure, but there’s little Izuna can do to stop this now that it’s begun. Madara has always been the more ego-centric between them—and for good reason—but Izuna has never been found lacking in his own skill set. He’s intelligent and dangerous, backing power and prowess with stratagem.

Amazing how years of training can be made impotent by a single unknown assailant.

Senju fucking Tobirama—if that’s even his name.

Black spots begin to waver in his vision and his shoulders fall lax.

Before he blacks out completely, there’s a sudden, vice-like grip on his wrists and Izuna’s arms are wrenched upright, katana falling away with a clatter. Air slams back into his lungs, sharp and brittle. He struggles then, feebly lashing out to put enough space between them in order to throw his weight back and slam Tobirama’s nose up into his brain. He’s still weak—stealing shallow breaths—and only makes it half-way.

Tobirama rides the motion, dodges the kick by simply standing up fully, and slams a palm over Izuna’s gaping mouth.

A flood of flavor bursts on his tongue, thick and oddly meaty, like the round, flat mushrooms that grow only on the west bank of the Nakano River. It tingles down his throat, into his lungs. A cloud of spores intent on pollinating everything within reach.

“Now do you know who I am? What I look like? Do you _remember correctly_?” Tobirama asks, leaning close enough that his breath kisses Izuna’s neck.

And no, no he doesn’t. Because whatever this lunatic just tried, it didn’t work and Izuna is a hairsbreadth away from licking his palm just for the shock factor. Actually, that’s a pretty solid plan.

Putting tantrum tactics into play, Izuna laves Tobirama’s palm with his tongue and goes boneless, dropping his weight to the ground. There’s a frustrated hiss as Tobirama jerks his hand back, losing control in the process. Serves the bastard right for…well…existing. 

“Yeah, you’re an interloper who looks like the ass end of a geisha with lipstick stains to match,” he spits out in answer. 

The flash of surprise on Tobirama’s face is wholly satisfying. Taking advantage of his shock, Izuna whips through hand signs as familiar as breathing and lies back to exhale a steady stream of flame from his sprawled position between the shinobi’s legs. Bursting with light and glowing white at its core, his Grand Fireball engulfs the air and swallows the sun. Shadows shift in its wake, the sky growing dark by comparison.

Whatever disgusting jutsu spores were planted in his lungs and throat—impotent though they were—are burned out. The jutsu was likely meant to embed false memories if Tobirama’s line of questioning is anything to go by. As if Izuna hasn’t taken measures to gird himself against all manner of poisons during his lifelong tenure as a shinobi.

The heat continues to roil, making his kimono cling, damp beneath his armor. Finally, he cuts off the katon jutsu right before his lips begin to chap, throat clicking. With as much power as he put behind it, his enemy should be no more than a cone of cinders.

However, his luck doesn’t seem to hold. The smoke wafts away around the impression of a man.

“If you’re quite finished,” Tobirama snaps, a tall, person-shaped mass of char, black but for the in-human glow of his eyes peeking through the darkness. Red-hot slag drips down his front, the remnants of what was once armor.

“What are you?” Izuna whispers in horror, watching as the damaged flesh cracks, then peels away like the bark of a birch tree. Sap floods down Tobirama’s body and across the dry ground between them, revealing pale, unblemished skin beneath. Delicate curls of charcoal settle at his feet and roll away on a light breeze.

Izuna gapes.

With the exception of a few remaining scraps of molten metal still clinging to Tobirama’s shoulders, there’s no evidence of being hit at point-blank range by a jutsu only one other shinobi can match in terms of raw power. No scorch marks, not even a smudge of ash to mar his pale beauty.

“_What the fuck are you_?” he screams as he scrambles back in the dirt, eyes wide and wild. The world flickers in and out of shades of red as his Sharingan flares to life and deactivates in turn.

“'What', hmm? No longer concerned with _who_ I am?”

It’s telling that he doesn’t deny the implication.

“Anija was bored with the shoots and runners he spreads to bolster the Senju clan,” Tobirama scoffs, languidly gesturing towards the battlefield where the oddly uniform Senju soldiers continue to sway with the rhythm of battle. Brown skin, black hair, green-toned fabrics–all the trappings of the forest. “He grew me from his seed to test the efficacy of a more autonomous model of family member. An experiment of sorts. And one you are singularly immune to, it would appear.”

Sage above, they’re not real, Izuna realizes. That’s why the Senju have always seemed so genetically stifled. It’s not the culmination of population bottlenecking and generations of inter-clan marriage that’s to blame…they’re all Hashirama. All of them. An entire clan of mokuton people. It’s a horror that Izuna wouldn’t be able to contrive even in his worst fever dreams, but here it is laid out before him.

Centuries of war, for what, an immortal’s entertainment? A demon who begets demons on a whim, smiling all the while and courting its way through generations of Uchiha.

Opening eyes he didn’t realize he had shut, Izuna blinks to clear the welling tears. Too much. All of this is too much. It’s far bigger than he is; bigger than Nii-san. He swallows heavily and claws his fingers into the dirt, readying a swell of chakra to shunshin his way across the field and steal his brother from the jaws of a monster. He doesn’t know where his clan can run to, but at least a nomadic life will put distance between them and this obsession the forest has with their bloodline.

Just as his chakra network answers the call, a solid hand latches onto his ankle.

Tobirama is there between heartbeats, squatting before him with the easy grace of a predator.

“I’ll admit, you’ve piqued my interest, Uchiha Izuna. You’ll prove to be interesting company until I figure out how you are able to resist my pollen,” he says, echoing Hashirama’s smile, but with far more teeth and no attempt at playacting congeniality. He pitches forward onto his knees and crawls up Izuna’s body.

As much as he wants to resist—to fight, to run—Izuna finds himself frozen underneath a genjutsu stronger than any he’s ever faced. Fear is not a bedfellow he’s familiar with and it leaves him shaken, trembling in the face of the dark divine. Blood pounds in his ears and his heart slams so hard he rocks with it.

“Don’t worry, your people will remember you fondly,” Tobirama reassures teasingly as he eases in close enough for Izuna to smell the pitch on his breath. “I’ve keyed my spores to implant memories of your untimely passing. They’ll be taking effect any second now.”

Lines of skin begin to burble across his chest, quickly gaining mass and pulling apart to reveal the giant, gaping maw of his torso. There are no organs, no flesh, only a hollow fashioned from tree rings. 

“A katana to the chest, if you’re wondering,” he continues, taking up Izuna’s limp hands in his own as he lies down on top of him, spreading their arms wide and toeing his legs apart at the ankle.

Abject fear, jutsu, whatever it is that keeps Izuna immobile is powerful beyond telling. He watches the darkness descend over him like a shroud. The sensation of living wood wrapping around him more intimately than a lover is the last thing he experiences before he’s swallowed whole.

“Uchiha Madara will morn and Anija will likely have to spread his roots deeper to pacify him, but uncovering your secrets will be well worth the inconvenience. I’m eager to begin, as I’m sure you are as well.”

He laughs, long and loud, head thrown back in abandon.

A long moment passes in darkness and with an odd twist Tobirama’s body inverts so that Izuna can observe through his eyes.

The following scene passes in clips of sound and snatches of light. Izuna watches through the knotholes of Tobirama’s eyes as he raises a wooden replica of the Uchiha heir from the ground. Ichor pools around him, soaking into the clone’s indigo mantle and turning it dark like blood. Dissociated from the reality of it all, Izuna can’t help but wonder at how ancient and powerful these mokuton creatures are to make such precise replicas of the human body.

Every crack on his bloodied lips oozes convincingly, gums up his expertly-crafted hair. Even the clone’s breaths rattle with the blood that must be filling his lungs.

In the distance, a scream of rage and sorrow grows nearer.


	35. TobiIzu- Taken (Part 2 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clever, but not clever enough. Hashirama should stick to the things he’s good at, like kindly fucking off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Tobirama/Izuna  
Rating: T  
Theme: Taken  
Warnings: Manipulation, brainwashing 
> 
> Part 1- <https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898752/chapters/50687936>

“I need you for a mission in Kirigakure,” Hashirama states cheerily as he sets a sheaf of papers on top of the scroll Izuna was actively reading. “It’s S-class and time sensitive, so you’ll have to leave in the morning. I hope it’s not too late of notice for you.”

Continuing to stare at what should have been an account of rice distribution but is now the Hokage’s sloppy scrawl, Izuna eases back in his chair and slowly removes his glasses. Hashirama is in a particularly good mood today, dimples deeper than the Naka Valley and eyes crinkled enough to show his age.

Though, that’s not surprising considering this mission would assure Izuna’s death. Kiri is currently a hotbed of sedition, hosting a near-constant struggle between coup and counter-coup. Their village has been under a sustained no travel order due to the fact that any shinobi not sporting their Hitai-ate is summarily slaughtered.

It’s such a puerile, transparent maneuver. Izuna almost feels bad for Hashirama.

“Funny, I don’t remember an S-rank being on the mission desk this morning. You’d think I’d recall something like this seeing how as I’m the one responsible for accepting contracts and all,” he drawls, curious as to how Hashirama intends to negotiate the glaring pitfalls in his ploy.

“Just came in, actually! I would give it to Madara, but he’ll be leaving to negotiate trade relations with the Daimyō tonight. Tobi’s on medical leave, and Hikaku is still in the Land of Sound,” Hashirama proclaims, gesticulating rapidly and brimming with pent-up joy. “Sorry. You’re the only one qualified to take it.”

Clever, but not clever enough. Hashirama should stick to the things he’s good at, like kindly fucking off.

Izuna returns that razor-sharp grin with one of his own and pushes up from his desk, bowing in deference. “Of course, Hokage-sama. I’ll go start preparing now,” he concedes, praying he can keep his laughter under control at least until he makes it out of the tower.

It’s a narrow thing, and there are a handful of inquiries as to why his face is so red, but he manages. As soon as the warm afternoon sun hits his shoulders he guffaws long and loud enough to upset a nearby murder of crows. Jounin eye him warily as they pass and lengthen their stride.

Nothing good can come from an Uchiha in tears, amused or otherwise.

“Oh, you stupid clump of weeds,” Izuna chuckles, hands braced on his knees and vision swimming. "You stupid, sad, pathetic bastard!" It takes a second for him to catch his breath and stretch out the cramp in his stomach. Senju Hashirama is a powerhouse in many respects—a god they say. And sure, Izuna wouldn’t want to ever have to face him in an outright conflict, but when it comes to obfuscation, the Senju is no better than a child. In games of wit and cunning, Izuna is the one who builds the board and guides the pieces regardless of the players that think themselves clever.

Idiot.

Wiping the tear tracks from his face, Izuna takes a deep, rattling breath and hurries off towards the civilian market to purchase the things he’ll need to make tomorrow morning truly spectacular. Too, he’s going to have to find a lavish gift to bribe his brother into unknowingly performing his part.

If Senju Hashirama wants to play, he’ll play.

On his own terms.

***

The morning greets Izuna with the same serenity he’s known every day since Tobirama first woke without knowing his own name. He looks off along the forest path leading away from the mouth of Konohagakure’s gates and marvels at the slight haze of fog lingering in the canopy, how it captures the red and gold of the rising sun and sets the leaves to glittering. Birds flit through the air, calling out to each other with threats and sexual overtures that still manage to sound so sweet.

They’re very much like Tobirama in that regard.

Smiling honestly, Izuna squeezes his hand and takes comfort in Tobirama’s immediate reciprocation.

“You’re unusually quiet this morning,” Tobirama observes, careful not to break the tranquility of the moment. He’s so endearingly thoughtful now, particularly compared to the abrasive asshole he was prior to Izuna’s gentle guidance. No barbs aimed at the chinks in Izuna’s armor, no purposeful sabotage waiting to be aired in clan meetings—only this deep, abiding love and respect for the man he chose to make a life with.

Izuna has never been so happy to be given what he deserves.

“Mmm,” he hums, turning away from the path stretched out before them in favor of pressing up close. Tobirama’s chest is hard beneath his hands and thoughts of how hard he is elsewhere has Izuna growing soft with fond memories of last night. Their wedding night.

“Just thinking about you.” The truthfulness of the admission warms him from within. It’s nice to have a haven from the lies, a husband to anchor him in decency.

Tobirama snorts, but leans down to kiss his forehead all the same. “You’re a sap.”

“Too bad. Take responsibility for the monster you’ve created.”

Before Tobirama can retort, shuffling steps alert them to the Hokage’s presence. Hashirama’s handsome, typically expressive face is cold in light of their apparent affections. It always is.

“Otouto. Izuna,” he greets them stiffly. “What are you doing here, Tobirama?”

“Accompanying my husband on a mission,” Tobirama replies, cocking his head as if that should be obvious.

Izuna’s never been more proud of his pet project.

Sidling closer, he finds the warmth of Tobirama’ hands on his waist is enough to dispel Hashirama’s chilly aura. Funny how their dynamics have switched over time—the lovely suiton user blooming with light and the log-shaped demon spreading permafrost at its roots.

The thought is saccharine and overly poetic, but who cares. He’s right.

Clenching his jaw, Hashirama sputters something unintelligible through his teeth, then resorts to pinching the bridge of his nose to gather his thoughts. A deep, bracing breath, and he looks up from beneath the shroud of his hair with the most bizarre smile Izuna has ever seen.

It’s a mixture of deep forest threat and such piss poor acting that Izuna has to bury his face in Tobirama’s kimono to keep from giving up the ghost too soon.

“Care to explain?” Hashirama says with all the pleasantness of a bear trap.

Fortunately, Tobirama has grown well past the point of giving undeserved deference. “You tasked Izuna with fulfilling a mercenary contract in Kirigakure and, considering the state of political unrest in the region and my husband’s insufficient suiton ability, I deemed it best to accompany him,” he says, shrugging.

Despite not being able to see his face, Izuna can almost hear the raised eyebrow in his tone. 

A masterpiece.

“And when precisely did the two of you get married?”

At that, Izuna turns to press his ear against Tobirama’s heart, to look on and catch the exact moment that the kunai slams into Hashirama’s soul.

“I married into the Uchiha clan last night. Madara officiated and signed the documents on the engawa before he left for his own mission to meet with the Daimyō. I saw no need for pomp and ceremony, and, as such, no others were invited to disrupt our evening together.”

The blade hits home so powerfully Hashirama rocks back from the impact. In twelve hours his machinations not only backfired spectacularly, but cost him a brother in the process. “I—I don’t,” he stutters, mouthing at the air like a fish. “Well.” A telling pause, loud like heartbreak. “The contract was cancelled. Go home.” Tiny calla lilies sprout around his sandals, race to bloom, and die quickly in turn.

Their dry, desiccated husks will make lovely nesting materials for the little songbirds that have gathered in the branches above them, Izuna thinks. 

He bites his lip against the impulse to grate salt into the wound, though doesn’t bother to hide the smugness in his body language. There’s only so much graciousness he can affect in his victory considering the how brutal Hashirama has been in his pursuit—how hard he tried to premeditate Izuna’s death.

Fuck him.

Tobirama has been his brother’s sycophant long enough, now it’s Izuna’s turn to enjoy that devotion.

_He’s earned it. _

Hashirama’s broken retreat is made all the sweeter by the feel of finger tips beneath his chin and the tender kiss to follow. 


	36. TobiIzu, DanzoKaga- Eye stealing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a _love_ story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Tobirama/Izuna, pre-Danzo/Kagami  
Rating: T  
Theme: Eye stealing  
Warnings: Sociopathy, mild body horror...very briefly alluded to, unreliable narrator

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this.

Shouldn’t be risking life and limb to sneak into the lowest levels of Senju Tobirama’s laboratory, buried deep beneath the house he shares with no one.

Swallowing against the oppressive humidity, Danzo wipes his nose on his sleeve and surreptitiously slips around another bend in the complex root system. There’s no light and despite his well-honed skills, navigating this labyrinth has proved to be far more difficult than he had imagined. Fear builds a heavy home in his breast as the warm air brushes his cheek with what feels like actual fingers in the darkness.

Knowing his sensei, it’s not too far-fetched an imagining. There’s no telling what the man keeps down here.

Danzo stops, leaning against the rough approximation of a wall carved into soil and clay, and tries to remember how to breathe—tries to bolster his confidence with the reminder of why he’s here. 

_“Uchiha courtships are all about flare, you know?” _Kagami had said. _“Like flashy shows of,”_ a pause, _“daring and stuff. Oh, and there’s dancing sometimes, too!”_

Dancing had been a spectacular failure.

While Danzo is passable at taijutsu, he can never seem to get his gangly legs to turn those steps into anything remotely rhythmic. Deep furrows in his bedroom floor are a testament to his innate ability to trip over his own feet and having to explain away the black bruises on his knees that first time was an embarrassment he won’t soon forget. Senju Hashirama-sensei had laughed himself hoarse once he realized there was nothing nefarious going on.

Kami above, Kagami had laughed too.

Maybe when he fills out a bit more and finds his center he’ll be able to revisit the dancing thing, but here and now, Danzo’s teenaged body just isn’t suited for it. So all that’s left to him at this point is risking his life to maybe, possibly, sort of impress a boy he likes.

This has to work, or else Danzo is out of options.

Gritting his teeth with renewed resolve, he clutches at the wall, cramming dirt beneath his nails as something unseen shifts from underfoot. The bones of seals—each with more violent intent than the last—begin to pulse softly in the pitch-black tunnel before him, providing light where otherwise there would be none. Fortunately, he knows these patterns, has watched them come together on paper over Tobirama-sensei’s shoulder when he first devised them.

The hand signs required to deactivate the seals are numerous and complex, but, while Danzo may not have been born into the clan he loves most, he was blessed with a more typical version of their eidetic memory. It only takes a moment of concentration and he’s through the first ring with his skin intact.

He takes a second to pat himself down just to be sure, then looks to the next web of light with renewed confidence.

This obstacle requires more effort, bearing down with lighting teeth and buzzing through him as if intent to reshape his bones. In the end, it gives under his insistent hand as well, crackling along the floor and off into the distance before it peters out. He can’t help but grin at the elation of a job well done. There are jounin that couldn’t do what he just managed—those strutting peacocks with their garish green vests and totally unimpressive scars.

Danzo will have scars like that one day and maybe Kagami will want to hear the stories. No, he _definitely _will. Maybe he’ll even give himself an x to mark the spot where Kagami should kiss him first.

The thought has him grinning.

High on success, he silently jogs around another bend, feels his way along the correct path at a bifurcation—or at least the only one that doesn’t smell like rotting corpses—and jolts in surprise at the soft glow suddenly appearing a short ways along the trail. Light streams from the outline of a doorway, the portal to his victory and the key to winning his crush’s favor.

Here’s to hoping there’s something in there benign and small enough to carry, and it’s not an experimentation cell. Or a morgue. Or both. His memory is a valuable tool, but sometimes he wishes he could forget some of the scrolls he’s secreted his way into reading.

“Here we go,” he whispers, easing the metal handle down. The door swings open on silent hinges, lanterns flaring so brightly inside that Danzo has to screw his eyes shut against the abrupt, jarring pain.

“You’re late,” a crisp voice announces, arresting Danzo’s heart and sending him stumbling sideways in a very un-shinobi-like way.

The door slams shut of its own accord, cutting off his escape. Nostrils flaring in panic, he goes for the kunai tucked into his obi and slams hip first into what is more than likely a table, hissing at the bruise he can already feel forming. Only after he manages to brace himself and squint around blindly in the glaring lamplight does he finally register the fact that it’s Tobirama. Because who else could it be.

“Sensei!” he says in a panic, “what are you doing here?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Tobirama doesn’t deign to answer.

“You’re late,” he repeats. “Retrieve a stool and we will begin the lesson.”

Completely at a loss, Danzo blinks against the brightness and stares at his sensei until the vague outline resolves into a strong, familiar back. Senju Tobirama is an impressive man—powerful, empathetic in his own way, and more intelligent than any of the other shinobi in the village put together. He was probably leading armies at Danzo’s age, not sneaking around and falling in love with boys. The realization has Danzo pulling his shoulders up to his ears and crossing his arms, realizing that he must look ridiculous to someone who chose to be above those sorts of things.

“Today, Shimura.”

Jolting, Danzo rubs at his sore hip and hurries over, scanning the cluttered workroom for a stool. He finds one buried under a pile of papers and carefully relocates them to a low table as he rushes to comply. Heartbeat loud in his ears, he’s already hopping up onto the seat before the legs even have time to plant, making it squeal horrendously against the hard-wood floor. Danzo winces, but Tobirama is tolerant enough not to remark on his eager fumbling.

“I expected you six months ago,” Tobirama begins, holding a curl of gold leaf up to the light and glaring at it as if it had personally wronged him. Sighing, he sets the shimmering flake down and shifts his attention to Danzo instead. “Regardless, you’re here now. We may proceed.”

Proceed with what, Danzo has no clue. Too, the fact that Tobirama was _expecting_ him to break into his laboratory has his cheeks flushing with shame. Is he really so predictable? So untrustworthy? Though, maybe this wasn’t about testing his character. Maybe this was a test of his ingenuity and resolve? His sensei is anything but careless—there had to have been a reason he ‘accidentally’ let Danzo catch a glimpse of his fuinjutsu that day he invented the warding seals.

“Umm, Sensei,” he says tentatively, “what lesson?”

Instead of answering immediately, Tobirama gives him a long, assessing look. Seemingly content with what he finds, he smiles and raps his knuckles against the long, wooden plinth before them.

While Danzo’s first impression was of a single, rough-hewn sheet of lumber, the sharp knock sets off a cascade down the length of the table. Hair-thin fibers flow in a suiton-like wave and spin in place, pulling up a field of jars as they rotate. Some are smaller than others, but all two dozen or so of the glass containers look to be well cared for and sealed with more than simple wax paper and twine. Blood seals glow lovingly atop golden lids; there must be a small fortune invested in them.

Observing the display in rapt wonder, he realizes that he’s being watched in turn by a sea of pupils. Suddenly the jars’ beauty takes a turn toward the macabre.

“These are…” he stutters, eyes growing wide in horror.

“Cenotaphs to honor my fallen enemies,” Tobirama finishes for him. “Each one marked with the time, date, and manner in which they gave their lives.” He picks up the closest, emblazoned with ‘_Uchiha Hikaku_’ just beneath its rim, and presses the bold kanji to his cheek, eyelids fluttering in obvious reverence. The water within sloshes and two suspended Sharingan bob with the motion. 

Danzo can’t look away. His rabbit-pulse slams in his throat, making it uncomfortable to swallow. There are so many Uchiha here—so many unspeakable crimes laid out on one innocuous table.

“Sensei,” he begins hesitantly, “why are you showing me this?”

His quiet question snaps Tobirama out of his daze. Clearing his throat, he sets the jar down, caressing the lid one last time as he slips it back into the first orderly line.

“Without war or an uprising, there is no justifying the continuance of my collection,” he answers in a seeming non sequitur. “I am satisfied with the life I have led and in the event of my untimely demise, I will no longer be using the gifts I have been given. As such, I would see the memories of the fallen passed on when I die.”

He inhales, long and slow, then settles one strong hand on Danzo’s shoulder.

“These shinobi gave their lives to better my prowess; it’s only right that they be made a permanent aspect of my legacy. As my successor, I thought it fitting that you learn how to care for them properly.”

The honor or being named Senju Tobirama’s successor easily tamps down on the discomfort of the situation. Danzo has always sought his sensei’s approval, but thought himself lacking time and time again. As with courting Kagami, he could never quite figure out the steps it took to get it right, to win that soft, secret smile. Apparently he was sorely mistaken.

His vision wavers and he finds himself viciously tamping down on the tears that threaten to well up. 

“I—you collected all of these?” he deflects, because he’s never known what to do with acceptance or approval—never had enough opportunities to learn properly. 

Tobirama nods, squeezing once and reclaiming his hand. “Yes. From the bodies of the fallen before they could be claimed.” 

“But eye-stealers were—”

“Punished severely as bloodline thieves regardless of clan affiliation, yes,” Tobirama finishes, a sharpness seeping into his tone. “Academy rhetoric is rooted in truth in this instance.” Brow furrowed, he turns his eerily red gaze on Danzo.

The power of it is enough to keep him rooted to the spot, but not enough to allay the niggling suspicion that creeps in. Red eyes. Red like the Sharingan.

“However, I committed no such crime. It would have been a gross folly to allow my enemies to go un-honored, un-commemorated. I did not steal their eyes so much as bind their spirit to my soul with ties of flesh. An exchange, not a theft,” Tobirama explains, as if semantics can properly excuse what is so obviously a crime.

What’s not so obvious is how he managed such a feat in the middle of what was likely a skirmish. But then it hits him—‘ties of flesh.’ ‘An exchange’. Danzo is young, but he’s seen enough death to know that planting evidence or obfuscating an inconsistency is easy enough given time to premeditate. His sensei is nothing if not a planner. 

“You put, what, corpse eyes in in their place?” he asks, scrubbing at his chin in thought. It’s a bizarre thought. “No, they’d have to be red. Wait, did you use your own eyes? But there are dozens of jars here and that would only work once.”

Scoffing, Tobirama rises and smooths out the wrinkles from his kimono as he steps around Danzo to the end of the table—the only area not covered in jars. “As if I wouldn’t be so crude. Eyes are easily transported in empty sockets and effortlessly regrown from stem cells. The sacrifice was always mine to make.”

There’s a lot to unpack there. Danzo doesn’t think he’s up to the challenge of parsing through all of the implications. Pursing his lips, he chooses to keep his commentary to himself.

When no interjections or questions arise, Tobirama hums in satisfaction and continues with his lecture.

“I’ve always been blind. It was no hardship,” he explains, reaching down through the liquid surface of the table to pull out an ornate golden box.

Danzo notes there’s a section where the gold leaf has flaked off from over-handling.

Returning to his seat, Tobirama sets the box down with care and triggers a hidden mechanism to reveal the empty jar inside. The fluid is conspicuously absent, as are the paired Sharingan that the other jars house. Even so, there’s the remnants of a well-worn name that Danzo can’t make sense of.

Tobirama lifts it up towards the light with obvious reverence.

“As my protégé, I will expect you to protect and cherish my collection when I pass. You alone, Danzo. No other must be allowed to covet what is ours. See to it that you honor them with the same dignity and respect that I myself have bestowed upon them throughout the years. Each noble Uchiha must remain labeled such that their name carries on as long as their Sharingan exists in this world.” A breath. A faraway look. “A solution of distilled water and point nine percent sodium chloride is sufficient to keep them moist and maintain their osmotic pressures. Make certain that the jars never fall below this line.”

He traces a thin, horizontal line etched into the empty glass, then loses himself to his thoughts yet again. The quiet lingers long after he finishes speaking.

Too reluctant to interrupt whatever is going on in his sensei’s head, Danzo sits awkwardly on his stool and concentrates on keeping still. This is the most appalling thing he’s ever been exposed to, even as a relatively experience-hardened chūnin. But, there’s a part of him that finds it intriguing too. Honoring opponents by taking parts of them has a certain poeticism—one his idol touts like a man who has known the breadth and depth of love as well as loss.

It’s like he feels the same love for the shinobi in these jars that Danzo feels for Kagami.

Maybe the two versions aren’t so different?

“Do you understand?” Tobirama asks, finally coming back to himself.

“Yes, Sensei,” Danzo replies honestly.

He’s awarded a sharp nod of approval.

Brimming with curiosity and new-found confidence, Danzo dares to scoot a hand-span closer into Tobirama’s space. It’s interesting to note that underlying the perpetual smell of parchment and ink is the subtle scent of ash.

“Sensei, you said that all of your eyes need to be labeled to honor the donors, right? So why did you let that jar get so messed up?” He only realizes what he said when the words leave his lips and immediately tenses.

Fortunately, Tobirama takes no offence. In fact, he smiles fondly, carding a hand through his hair and glancing at Danzo side-long.

“This jar is no longer necessary. It stood as a placeholder for nearly a decade and remained in my collection out of sentimentality. I honor the man whose eyes have shared my pain and my joy above all others—the man who this jar represents. Uchiha Madara once thought to take him from me, though Anija unintentionally reunited us in the end. If you were to remove my skin and lay it flat, the lines of my tattoos would reveal the name ‘Uchiha Izuna’.”

He doesn’t have to say it. Danzo realizes now that Senju Tobirama was never the lonely bachelor the adults made him out to be—a morose recluse haunted by ghosts of the past. Instead, he’s been living a charmed life with the man he obviously adores, raising children and allowing his other half to watch it all unfold from a seat of honor in Tobirama’s eye-sockets.

It’s a _love_ story.

So if dancing and daring acts don’t work, there might be a third way. A ‘just in case’ option.

“He must have been very special to you.”

“Izuna was…” a pause—one so tender Danzo’s teenaged heart aches, “a gift without measure.”

Tobirama gently sets the jar back into its housing and reaches for the slip of gold leaf he abandoned earlier. A flare of chakra is all it takes to electroplate the mar on the box’s surface. When his palm slides away, the golden surface is unblemished and whole, a testament to his devotion. “You may have them all, but I will be taking Izuna with me to my grave. He was not able to stand by my side in life, but in death we will be together,” he murmurs as he tilts his head, eyes fluttering shut as if finding comfort in the caress of a lover’s hand.

Discomfited in the way of a son watching his parents kiss, Danzo looks away and pointedly ignores the insubstantial flash of shadow he notes in his periphery. There’s no telling what his sensei has channeled through these stone walls—what forces he has called on to see to his last wishes.

The shade dissipates soon after.

“Do you accept this duty as I have presented it, Shimura Danzo?”

Standing abruptly, Danzo bows at the waist. “I would be honored to uphold your legacy, Senju Tobirama-sensei,” he replies just as formally.

“Very good. Now, you’re familiar with tales of the Izanagi, yes? Let us discuss the chakric channels required for embedding the sharingan and the specific seal sequence to activate its use.”


	37. HashiTobi- Voodoo doll (Part 1 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s only natural for a man to miss his baby brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written for a prompt submission on Tumblr, but then took a turn for the weird. lol
> 
> Pairing: Hashirama/Tobirama  
Rating: M  
Theme: Voodoo doll  
Warnings: Siblingcest, voodoo-based consent issues (not that anyone knows that's what going on), voyeurism...kinda?, codependency

His otouto is so cute! With his little wooden feet and hair made of birch curls, Hashirama can’t help but grin as he gives the moss-filled doll a squeeze. It’s not his actual brother, but desperate times call for desperate measures and with Tobirama away on back to back missions the loneliness hit pretty hard.

That’s why he made Tobi-chan—a delicate amalgamation of mokuton parts with berry stained tattoos and lips to brighten the emptiness of the home they share. And so what if he starts bringing Tobi-chan to the office too. Or tucks him into his obi as he makes his rounds through the village to greet the vendors that line the streets.

Tobirama’s been gone for months.

Despite Madara’s curled lip and Izuna’s barely contained laughter, he’s not doing anything wrong.

It’s only natural for a man to miss his baby brother.

***

After a week of subtle digging, there’s a structural weakness he can take advantage of.

Finally.

Tobirama slams his fist into the doton wall without hesitation, gritting his teeth as he feels the compound fracture happen in real-time. Blinded by adrenaline as he is, the pain won’t register until the Iwagakure operatives lie dead in a pool of their own arrogance, so for now he pushes through and strikes again.

Again.

_Again_.

Finally, the reinforced stone buckles under his strength and the chakra suppressing seals along with it. A renewed flood of power sparks through his meridians—clear, and crisp, and as all-consuming as the tide. Grinning, he allows it to explode from his chest like a thing possessed, shattering the walls of his prison and bringing down his captors in a rain of suiton bullets. 

It’s a grisly scene in the hall beyond and one he doesn’t care to linger in long enough to find clothing or supplies. His freedom is all he needs.

Tracking a line of sticky red footprints through the cave network, Tobirama steps out into a warm, deceptively tranquil patch of sunshine and breathes deep to trade the scent of his own filth for the clean forest air.

***

Well, _twigs_.

Bottom lip pushed out in an exaggerated frown, Hashirama wriggles Tobi-chan’s right arm and watches with discontent as it flops lifelessly. Splinters jut out from the sleeve of the thin felt robe, staining the aqua swirls dark with sap. Tobi-chan is stoic in the face of what looks to be quite a nasty injury, expression equally as placid as his real otouto’s would be in a similar situation.

He can’t even remember what he could have done to cause the break. This just won’t do.

“Hashirama, are you listening? Oh, for the love of the Sage not this again,” Madara groans.

There’s a string of angry blustering, but Hashirama only catches every third word as he pokes his tongue out in concentration and pulls up the tiniest tendril of mokuton to reinforce Tobi-chan’s arm. Matchstick bones realign. Sap returns to his little doll body and the felt recalls its days as raw cotton, reaching out delicate fibers to close the tear.

“There, all fixed!” Hashirama exclaims happily, holding his doll aloft to showcase his handy work.

The expectant silence remains unbroken, empty of the applause or congratulations Tobi-chan deserves.

“We’ll finish this when you’ve got your shit together,” Madara grunts, slamming down a sheaf of papers so hard Hashirama jolts, then storms out of their shared office.

***

The only forewarning he gets is an odd tingling around the edges of his wound.

Between heart beats, Tobirama collapses under a wave of agony so intense he sees white, arm writhing and twisting of its own accord. He clutches at the leaf litter and screams, slamming his forehead against the ground in an instinctual bid to somehow escape the pain. Blinded by welling tears, he fails to see how the jagged white edges of bone slurp back into his forearm, but, shinigami take him, he can feel it.

Can feel every queer twitch as something alien mercilessly resets his radius and ulna, then proceeds to seal the wound with sap-like ichor.

By the time he can breathe past the aftershocks—lying numb and listless in the dirt—his arm is hale once more. 

***

Tea cups clink merrily between them as Hashirama leans over the chabudai, long hair falling over his shoulder, to land a good-natured punch on Izuna’s shoulder.

Izuna rocks with the gentle impact, affecting injury. “Ow, you brute! I’m a delicate flower, I’ll have you know,” he cries, lips twitching at the corner while he palms his shoulder.

Hashirama throws his head back and laughs, long and deep. It’s good to have Madara’s younger brother for company, especially with as prickly as Madara himself has been lately. Stop dozing off, do your work, burn the doll. Whenever they’re in the office together it’s like he’s trying to assume Tobirama’s militant role without any of the adorableness to back it up—the true reason for Hashirama’s obedience.

Just thinking about the way Tobirama’s nose wrinkles at the top when he yells is enough to set Hashirama to sighing wistfully as the hilarity calms.

Angry strides and firm hands shoving him back down in his chair. The lingering warmth of his precious person’s touch, bitter-sweet like wine. He really misses his otouto.

A slow sip, then Izuna sets his cup down to rest his chin on his folded hands. There’s a knowing glint, a sharp edge behind the softness of the moment. “He’s due back in a week,” he states, looking up though his bangs.

Hashirama knows Izuna isn’t as innocent or trustworthy as he makes himself out to be, but the urge to take comfort in a friend is too overwhelming to keep his guard up. This is their village and Tobirama is the strongest link between them—there’s really no _danger_ in opening up.

“I know,” he says, smile a touch more restrained. “I’m okay. Really.”

He’s not.

Judging by Izuna’s unattractive snort, the lie isn’t remotely convincing. He eases back on his tatami mat, stealing another shallow sip of tea, then pulling his long ponytail over a shoulder and absently beginning to plait it. “You don’t have to pretend, Hashirama. I’m not my brother, it’s not like I’m going to judge you for being human. If you want—Tobi-chan, was it?—to join us, don’t hold back on my account.”

And that small bit of acceptance is enough to bring Hashirama’s smile back in full force. Not needing further invitation, he tugs the well-worn doll up out of his obi and busies himself with setting Tobi-chan up on the table. Arranging his delicate legs to balance in seiza proves to be an exercise in futility.

The doll’s appearance has been tweaked to where now he looks like a small, life-like replica of his otouto instead of the cluster of wood and sloppy stitches he began as. Still, his movements are those of a doll—stiff, stilted, and entirely dependent on Hashirama’s hand.

Every time Hashirama pulls away, his small body topples to the side. It’s a little frustrating.

“Have you tried controlling it,” a pause, “him with your mokuton?” Izuna asks, voice tinged with amusement. “Add a little wooden skeleton or something? Some plant fiber muscles, tendons, and whatnot. You’ve got a strong enough grasp of anatomy to make it work for you.”

“Oh!” Hashirama exclaims. “What a great idea!”

Why hadn’t he thought of that?

***

Tobirama wakes to moonlight and the telltale ache of sleeping on uneven ground. He’s too consummate a shinobi to outright groan, but he desperately wants to.

It’s been three days of constant travel, traipsing naked through the forests of fire country and staving off hunger with the few animals and berry bushes unfortunate enough to cross his path. Regardless, he’ll be back in Konoha before his mission times out, imprisonment-wrought delay or no.

He’ll be logical and concise in the retelling, but this is not a mission report he is eager to present no matter how it’s written.

His anija is going to be cross, frowning with that deep forest darkness that pervades his chakra when his anger grows too large to be contained by a congenial mask. Not that Hashirama will be able to do anything about it; the past is the past and the Iwa-nin are long dead.

Still.

Shaking his head, Tobirama sweeps his chakra out in a ten kilometer radius, relieved to note that no one has entered his vicinity despite his un-planned nap.

Exhaustion had caught up with him after being denied for so long; it was unavoidable.

He pulls up into long sitting to ease the ache in his back, taking a moment to brush the leaves and detritus away. Insects have no interest in the skein of chakra that buzzes just beneath his skin, emanating from the fuinjutsu seals tattooed across his body. Even so, not having fabric between himself and the filth of the forest is not his favorite way to wake. 

Grunting, he goes to stand—to prepare for another long night of travel on foot.

His legs don’t respond.

He tries again.

This time, his body moves of its own accord, whipping him around in place and settling him in a picture-perfect seiza position. Heart racing, he quickly scans his body for poisons or foreign chakra, finding nothing more than the vestiges of his anija’s presence, remnants from past healings.

The familiar smell of matcha is carried in by the wind.

***

“Tomorrow,” Hashirama murmurs to himself as he tosses and turns on his cold futon. “Tobi will be back tomorrow.”

On restless nights like this he’s so used to tiptoeing down the hall and snuggling up close under his otouto’s blankets. It’s been a slow building agony over the past couple of months not to have the warmth of Tobirama’s chest rhythmically expanding against his back, the solid presence of an arm across his waist.

After this mission, he’s banning Tobirama from anything outside of the village. Madara can rage all he likes, but Hashirama can’t take any more sleeplessness and that’s that.

However, as satisfying settling on a future plan is, it doesn’t fix the feeling of sand grating against his eyes, nor slow his racing thoughts. Frustrated, he flails his arms and viciously kicks at the blanket he stole from Tobirama’s room, only succeeding in wrapping it in a stranglehold around his legs.

Panting from the exertion, he stares at the ceiling.

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

Next to his displaced pillow comes the mild, impotent squirming of Tobi-chan, caught up in a knotted rope of Hashirama’s hair. How could he have been so absent minded? “Tobi-chan,” he cries in an exaggerated whisper, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up!” He delicately untangles the doll from his hair, using the light of the moon to guide his hands.

Finally free, Tobi-chan looks up to him, pale skin flushed and yukata askew. He really does look like a tiny Tobirama now—a silent, perfect simulacrum in every way, all the way down to the line of skin revealed by a too-loose obi. Hashirama swallows heavily, looks away only to glance back with heat in his cheeks.

It’s just a doll.

Admittedly a very realistic one that moves like a person under the guidance of his mokuton. He even appears to breathe when Hashirama focuses hard enough.

But, a doll all the same.

Surely it wouldn’t be wrong to take a tiny peek?

Biting his bottom lip, Hashirama scoots across the futon on his hip and places Tobi-chan down on the hardwood floor so that he isn’t lost to the bedding. Tobirama is such a beautiful man, he thinks, wondering what he did in his past lives to deserve such a perfect brother. Lithe, dedicated, and cut from unerringly resilient cloth—it’s impossible not to look upon him and see everything that Hashirama could possibly strive for in a sibling. A partner.

His stomach tightens at the thought.

A little fantasy never hurt anyone. It’ll help him sleep, right?

Nostrils flared and breath coming faster, Hashirama resolutely sends a seed of chakra through the floor and up into Tobi-chan’s plant-based mechanics. The doll gasps and wastes no time in rising up to its feet to deftly untie the ribbon holding its sleeping yukata partially closed. As the fabric pools at his feet, whatever reservations Hashirama may have had sputter and die.

So painfully beautiful. 

This is just another way of expressing how much he loves his otouto. A sweet infatuation, pure and innocent. Nothing more. Swallowing against the sudden dryness in his mouth, he guiltily parts his own yukata and slides his palm down his stomach, across the coarse thatch of hair below his abdominals, then takes himself in hand after only a beat of hesitation.

Looking is fine. There’s nothing bad about watching…so maybe giving himself a little bit more to watch is okay, too. 

Tobi-chan sinks down to his knees and sucks on his fingers, tiny cheeks hollowing.

***

A league away from the walls of Konoha, Tobirama abruptly drops to his knees. Sticks and stones scrape against his palms and leave his legs bloody, but that’s the least of his problems. A sudden, inexplicable urge has him shoving his fingers in his mouth, wetting them with an enthusiasm that’s honestly frightening.

Before he can shake off the shock and figure out what the actual hell is going on, those same fingers pull back with a wet pop.

His face meets the ground. His arm reaches back of its own accord.

There’s an almost eerily intense pressure, then a biting ache, as if born from two bodies and made to coalesce into one.

Propelled by a force not his own, Tobirama rocks with the motion as he pumps himself to orgasm, his brother’s name a sweet flavor spilling from his lips.


	38. TobiIzu- Taken (Part 3 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madara gives comfort to a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the anon guest who requested an outside perspective on the Taken series. 
> 
> Pairing: Senju Tobirama / Uchiha Izuna  
Rating: T  
Theme: Taken  
Warnings: None, really. Sad Hashirama?

There is no place in the shinobi world for black and white moralities.

Honorable conflict and noble sacrifices are pretty notions, but Madara has found that such idealism is best kept buried alongside a kunai in the breast of the samurai who invented them. Let those tin soldiers have their pure, sycophantic world view, because here, in reality, there are no heroes. There are no villains. There are simply people trying to weather the cruelties of the world and live their lives the best they can.

This is the truth that he’s carried with him—the code the Uchiha have always understood to be self-evident. Yet, somehow he doesn’t think imparting this particular bit of wisdom right now is going to help matters.

Glowering, Madara watches his friend of twenty years stumble over his words, thoughts flying too fast to catch and losing coherence as they race through a minefield of misplaced emotion. Hashirama is typically more eloquent than this. Emotionally labile, yes, but never inarticulate.

“You know what Izuna is doing is wrong,” he repeats, louder this time, gesticulating his point with hands better suited for combat than whatever this impassioned performance is supposed to accomplish. “You’re my adviser, Madara. My friend! The person I thought I could count on most. I can’t believe you would just go along with his schemes like that!”

Moonlight spills in through the wall of half-height windows lining their shared office as Hashirama rights a decorative vase knocked askew in his fumbling—puts it down, shifts it, picks it up again. The cold light bathes him far more brightly than the warm glow of Madara’s single candle—makes him shine like a shinigami in the gloom.

Gaze distant, eyes glassy and imploring, movements stilted.

He looks far older than Madara has ever seen him.

“I need you to annul the marriage,” Hashirama concludes, abruptly shoving the vase back onto its shelf and channeling his frenetic energy into wringing his hands instead. They both wince at the sudden crash and the fine tinkling of ceramic shrapnel as it patters around his feet.

“Hashirama,” Madara groans, resting his chin on folded hands, elbows settled firmly atop a half-finished mission summary. “Can this wait?”

He’s being callous in the face of his friend’s obvious upset. There’s no denying that fact.

But dirt stands out like half-moons under his nails—as deep and dark as the circles under his eyes—and the road dust has hardly had a half-hour to settle in his sandals. He had expected the tower to be empty at this time of night, had thought that he could complete his report while the thoughts were still fresh, then go drown himself in the public bathhouse until the sun rose. Sage willing, he still intends to do precisely that.

Anything to forget spending the past two weeks at the Daimyō’s beck and call, stuffed into silk kimonos ill-fit for his warrior’s body. Hashirama will have to forgive him the slight. For all their years together, he’s exhausted and a little rudeness is the least of his sins. 

“No, it really can’t wait,” Hashirama replies, voice hollow like heartbreak as he takes up pacing laps around the low couch they keep in their office for exactly these occasions—times when they really just need a sounding board.

Comfort.

A friend.

Madara swallows heavily against the guilt rising in his throat, acidic and burning like bile.

“You _know_ Tobirama’s sick. He’s not,” Hashirama hesitates, looking insurmountably stricken as ceramic crunches underfoot, “he’s not in his right mind. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Madara sucks in a breath, dropping his face into his palms and rubbing viciously as he realizes this conversation is not going to afford him an opportunity to escape to the bathhouse any time soon. He loves Hashirama like family, but why now of all times—now, when his nerves are already frayed and he’s so far beyond exhausted that his arms are leaden, fingertips numb. “Your brother is a cogent, fully functioning adult,” he says slowly, because maybe if he drags out the words they’ll seep into the cotton between Hashirama’s ears. “If he wanted to marry into my clan who was I to stand against him? I can’t annul a marriage request that I already sanctioned without good reason.”

The reaction is immediate.

With a wounded cry, Hashirama spins on his heel in affront, long hair flying out behind him, sleeves flaring like wings. “You’re the clan head! You can still say ‘no’,” he exclaims, all desperate, ill-placed indignation. “You know Izuna is behind all of this. You _know_ how dangerous and conniving he is and you’ve done nothing to stop him.” His rounded shoulders regain their broadness as his words turn accusatory. “Nothing, Madara! He’s poisoned my baby brother’s mind and he…he…”

Clenching his fingers into claws and screwing his eyes shut does absolutely nothing to keep Madara calm in the face of Hashirama’s pointed barbs. Whatever guilt he felt in trying to brush off this conversation falls away. After a fortnight spent negotiating new trade routes with the Daimyō and the vipers of his court, he has no patience for warding off the fangs of a friend.

The cacophonous impact of his fists against the desk startles Hashirama out of whatever diatribe he was building up towards.

“I hold nothing but love for you, Hashirama, but so help me, I will come across this desk if you malign my otouto one more time,” he enunciates carefully, sharpening his teeth on each syllable.

Eyes wide, Hashirama stills. His white-knuckled grasp goes slack.

“The union will stand. Tobirama married into the Uchiha clan and there is no one short of the Sage himself to break a bond of the heart. Izuna loves as wholly as any other member of my clan and Tobirama is happy. Certainly more content than I’ve ever seen him. I’m not going to tear that apart just because you can’t take the idea of someone else being more important to him than you. You’re overstepping bounds,” Madara hisses, filling the silence with his rising ire.

For a long moment there’s barely a breath in the room. Hashirama blinks slowly as the color leaches from his face, wilting under Madara’s dark, hooded stare. They say nothing. Then, there’s a soft, hitched inhale. Another. Each quiet catch is small, and all the more heartrending for it. With his ever shifting moods, tears are never far from Hashirama’s eyes, but not like this, not slipping down his cheeks unchecked as his chest rises and falls in jerky, half-aborted motions. It’s as if he’s trying to stem the rushing outpour now that the sluice-gates have been loosed. Strange considering he’s never been the type to hold back before. 

Breath coming faster and faster, he steps back and collapses onto the couch, immediately curling over and burying his fists in his hair. The first great, racking sob pierces right through Madara’s anger, rendering it impotent in the face of what looks like grief, but feels like mourning.

Maybe Madara is the one who’s overstepped.

“Hashirama,” he calls, receiving no response, only more of those horrific sounds like a dying animal. He tries again, uncharacteristically soft this time. When even that falls on deaf ears, he rounds his desk and hurries to sink down to his knees in front of Hashirama, the man who he holds in his heart, friend and family both. Dark fingers clench and pull at fistfuls of long hair and Madara winces, grabbing Hashirama by the wrists to ease the wildness of his thrashing. It’s as if he’s not even there.

“I’m sorry,” Madara says pacifically, not knowing if he can even be heard over the wet, choking cries. Using his fixed grip, he puts strength into tugging Hashirama forward and all but crushing him against his chest. Warmth suffuses his shoulder. Tears, saliva, snot, he doesn’t care—he hasn’t seen Hashirama this inconsolable since…well, since he lost his youngest brother.

“I’m sorry,” he insists, flexing hard enough to feel ribs creak under his straining forearms. “I was wrong to say those things.” Or at least wrong to couch them in anger.

Tangles catch at his calluses as he tries to smooth Hashirama’s hair down, applying long, firm strokes from the crown of his head to the small of his back. This close, he can smell the comforting scent of sandalwood and lavender, a smell that has followed him since they were children.

“I can’t undo what’s been done, but Tobirama is happy. He smiles now. Isn’t that what you fought so hard for? The whole reason we founded Konoha? To keep our precious people safe and content?”

Hashirama doesn’t respond, though the pitch of his cries changes slightly and the death grip in his hair weakens enough for Madara to press his advantage.

“Shh,” Madara hushes him gently, maneuvering them to be more comfortably ensconced in the couch cushions as opposed to straining and half propped on the floor. He gathers Hashirama close, all ridiculously long limbs and tree trunk body, settles him on his lap, and smashes his friend’s blotchy face into his chest without fanfare. It’s a truly ludicrous image, he’s sure. Regardless, Hashirama has always been Uchiha-like in his need for affection and physical reassurance.

This intimacy is no hardship for either of them.

He engulfs Hashirama in his arms once more, resting his chin on top of his head and taking heart in the warm puffs of air on his collar bone. “Listen. I’ll admit, Izuna shouldn’t have intervened the way he did when Tobirama lost his memory.”

A sentiment Hashirama needs to hear right now, but not one Madara endorses entirely. Izuna is a willful brat, filled with vitriol and affection in equal measure with only a thin divide between. Were his intentions couched in beneficence when he first set out to mold Tobirama? Of course not. Madara was well aware of Izuna’s intent to claim and conquer from the outset. His otouto never settled easily into peacetime, wasn't able to let battlefield grudges die.

Making a move against Tobirama was inevitable.

If his machinations had been anything that could have put the treaty at risk, Madara would have stopped him. Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary in the end and by playacting the simpering, love-struck fool, Izuna managed the impossible—he single-handedly deposed the most dangerous voice of dissent among the whole of Konoha’s leadership. Senju Tobirama, the man who carved out a home in the Curse of Hatred and made it his own. Currently, Madara’s brother-in-law and a Sage-blessed fiend with a wok.

It’s a trade Madara would sanction a thousand times over.

Inhaling deeply, he cants his chin down to press a kiss against the warmth of Hashirama’s temple. His lips come away wet with sweat, tears, and everything that reminds them they’re human.

“Think about how much your brother has come to life. I saw him joking and laughing with a Nara just the other day and Hikaku can’t seem to shut the hell up about him. Not to mention the fucking brats that follow him around like he hung the moon.”

Sniffling long and loud, Hashirama swallows and turns it into a thick, breathy huff of laughter. “They do,” he agrees in wet admission. Madara smiles against his hairline and resumes stroking his shoulders, glad to note the tremor in them lessening.

“He has friends now and, yes, a husband. He never would have been able to relax enough to have those things if not for his accident,” he continues, keeping his voice low and allowing his rumbling baritone to roll through his chest into all of the places they touch. “He’s still the same brother you grew up with. The only thing that’s different now is he’s allowed to be himself instead of the weapon your father wanted. If only we could all be so lucky.”

And it’s true.

The prior version of Tobirama wasn’t so much reclusive as circumspect—with his manner, his motivations, his interests. Opening up was a weakness that could be all too easily exploited. That kind of personality didn’t exactly engender itself to establishing deep, lasting relationships. With the exception of his sole surviving brother, Tobirama didn’t have others to look after his wellbeing or to care about him past his position as heir apparent. Though, even the Senju brothers’ closeness was more a product of their upbringing and the conditioning inherent in their clan roles than pure, unbridled affection, Madara suspects. Sacrificing the spare to strengthen the strongest sibling, while objectively abhorrent, was simply the way of things for their war-fraught generation.

Not that Tajima was willing to spout the same insipid rhetoric. Madara and Izuna were raised with love on equal standing—brothers in the truest sense. 

Still, he understands how Tobirama grew to be such a raging asshole.

He can’t help but snort derisively and roll his eyes at how different Tobirama could have been from the start given a little kindness. Izuna may have been affecting his attraction when he first put his plan into motion, but it’s obvious to see the love in his eyes now, the way his sharingan spins in time with the beat of Tobirama’s heart. They’ve been good for each other. Grounding.

“Do you think Tobi hates me?” Hashirama asks, voice muffled and small in all of the ways he’s decidedly not.

Sighing, Madara reclaims his hands from Hashirama’s hair and cups the sides of his face to urge him to look up. Even with the rich, burnished cast of his skin, the man is an ugly crier. Swollen eyes, red nose, jaw hanging slack in order to breath properly. Madara kisses the imprints of his own clothing on his friend’s stupid, sweaty forehead, then rubs their noses together.

“Your brother doesn’t hate you,” he pronounces with finality. “He’s frustrated by what he perceives as you resenting his happiness.”

“But I don’t—it’s not that!” Hashirama yelps, only kept from leaping up by a heavy hand between his shoulder blades.

Madara abruptly slams Hashirama’s face back into his chest with a bit less delicacy than he should have if the grunt and wet crunch are anything to go by. Regardless, Hashirama can straighten his nose later, this needs to be settled now. “I’m well aware. Now stop moving, shut-up, and listen. Tobirama loves you implicitly. He also loves my brother. If you want him to seek you out as he does Izuna and build up the same closeness you’re so jealous of—”

There’s an affronted grumble and the damp heat of what Madara suspects is a stuck-out tongue pressed into his kimono.

“I didn’t ask for commentary,” he says flatly as he continues. “If you want to bridge the gap, then stop seeing Izuna as a threat and accept that it doesn’t matter what he did, all that matters is that we are all family now. Your brother will love you more strongly than he ever has for it.”

There’s nothing but conviction in his tone. He may not have cared to understand Tobirama then, but now he knows how his brother-in-law thinks, knows the depth of his passions. All it will take is an outstretched hand to break down the wall erected between them.

The parallelism doesn’t escape Madara, though he’s too tired to linger on the poetry of it.

For a long while they continue to share body heat—Madara reclined against the armrest with Hashirama twisted strangely and half-sprawled on top of him. With as loud and full of bluster as they typically are together, the quiet holds a certain appeal.

As the moon shifts and the room darkens, sleep begins to take hold.

He feels Hashirama move to where he can lie on top of him properly, blanketing him in heat and comfort, and burying contented snuffles in the crook of his neck.

Just before his eyes fall shut, Madara feels a soft whisper, only catching the last couple of words.

“…I’ll try.”

Smiling, he wraps his arms around his friend’s waist and sleeps more soundly than he has in weeks.


	39. TobiIzu- Taken (Part 4 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all his bloated arrogance, Izuna is a surprisingly thoughtful lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Senju Tobirama / Uchiha Izuna  
Theme: Taken  
Rating: E  
Warnings: Can I tag 'general fuckery'? Mind games. Unhealthy relationships. How about that?

For all his bloated arrogance, Izuna is a surprisingly thoughtful lover.

It’s not as if Tobirama ever took the time to consider or debate the merits of riding the Uchiha’s cock prior to Konoha’s founding, or after for that matter. But, things being what they are, he’s pleased to note that it’s not terrible. Quite good, in fact. Frankly, this entire farce has been a rather fascinating experiment in superseding expectations, and one he’s dragged out a bit longer than common sense would have dictated because of it.

Falling into bed with regularity is a commodity he’s grown an unfortunate taste for.

“T—Tobi,” Izuna pants as he spreads his thighs and digs his heels in for leverage. The added bite to their already frenetic love-making has Tobirama throwing his head back and riding the motion—pretty, sweet, and as practiced as any geisha. Each rhythmic slap of skin as their hips snap together is a familiar sound, wrapped so deeply in his hindbrain that his cock swells with it—leaking precome in a way that can only be described as Pavlovian.

Obfuscation aside, the sweat building between them is no affect, nor is the desperation in Izuna’s clawed fingers. There will likely be red half-moons scored into his thighs, pulling up welts as they rut like animals. Once their passions have eased into something less mindless, the poor man will fuss over the fact and sooth each burn with a kiss as light as butterfly wings. Amazing how gentle and soft of hand these love-struck Uchiha are no matter the putrid soul Tobirama knows lies beneath. 

He flexes his thighs and circles his hips in the way he knows Izuna likes it best, winning a choked moan, thick like a death rattle.

And that will come soon enough. Small death, mortal death—he’ll have them both. He’ll raise Izuna’s corpse just to have him like this over and over again afterward, locked in a perpetual cycle of defeat with only the taste of Tobirama to give him purpose. 

They were made for each other.

“Fuck,” he groans, throat clicking on the final sound.

He’s close. So close.

Izuna had tried so hard to be clever, sneaking in like a cuckoo to plant false memories and sentiment when Tobirama was announced to be amnesic. Even Hashirama accepted the supposed tragedy at face value, never stopping to wonder why all of his chakric scans came back devoid of defect. Amazing how even such shrewd men will always couch the things they see in terms of their desires or fears, never looking deeper than the surface of their own biased conclusions.

It’s a human folly Tobirama ruthlessly took advantage of—continues to even a year after his scheme began to bear fruit.

His soft-hearted, oddly moralistic Anija would have opposed this plan vehemently, too blinded by rose-tinted glasses to be able to understand the threat lurking in their midst. It was only a matter of time before Izuna struck down the peace they had built. All of the telltale markers were there: taut tension in the lines of his body, subconscious tics in the presence of any other clan but his own…the way his eyes never once strayed from Tobirama’s shadow. 

For Hashirama, for peace, for Tobirama’s own selfishness, Izuna had to be dealt with.

A typical shinobi never would have noticed the growing resolve, the mounting threat—one that promised to be explosive in ways none of them would be able to contain. But Tobirama is no typical shinobi. Izuna has always been and will always be his favorite little project.

A gasp. Grit teeth and a clamped jaw.

Tossing his head back into the pillows to stave off orgasm just a little longer, Izuna’s pace falters. He tries so hard to give Tobirama all of his endurance, all of himself. Every line is sleek, lean, and tremulous in his restraint.

He’s an objectively beautiful man with his hair spread out like an ink spill and such insipid tenderness pouring from a mouth gone slack in pleasure.

‘_You’re so good to me_.’ ‘_Please, Tobi, don’t ever stop_.’ ‘_I love you so much_.’

Tobirama is too self-aware to deny that he’s moved by being held in such high regard. Still, he has too many pieces on the shoji board to upset it with misplaced emotion. He’s been idle too long already in this game between them.

“Come for me,” he insists, fighting the burn of fatigue to drive down tirelessly. A punched out moan fills the spacious room they share as Izuna’s sharingan activates to add another sweet memory to the already superfluous library they’ve made here together.

Shuddering, his husband arches as he releases, throat exposed and heart slamming hard enough to be seen pulsing along that long, pale stretch of skin. Such a wonderful sight—truly one Tobirama is going to continue to enjoy when he raises Izuna with the Edo Tensei.

He mustn’t get ahead of himself, though. After waiting this long, he can wait a little more.

All it takes is a half-dozen firm, perfunctory strokes until Tobirama bears down on the softening cock inside of him and spills himself across Izuna’s stomach and chest like a claim. Breathing hard and fast as he comes down from the rush of satiation, he can’t help but to start drawing out the beginnings of the seal in the viscous mess, eyes half-lidded.

It’s meaningless like this with Izuna alive, but Tobirama does it all the same, humming contentedly.

Izuna watches him, smitten and happy in this make-believe love they share, though Tobirama supposes it’s no longer play-acting for his besotted spouse. Having won that genuine, all-consuming love, now all he has to do is tear it out by the roots. Izuna will self-destruct, Uchiha Madara will go mad having lost a brother, and the village will finally be devoid of the two most powerful voices of dissent among the whole of Konoha’s leadership.

Anija will finally be free of their poison. Surely that will make up for all the time spent pushing his brother away and winning Izuna’s favor in the process. 

Tobirama smiles as he finishes the outer array and sucks the release from his fingers to clean them. Another inarticulate groan has him stroking the damp strands of Izuna’s bangs from his face and tucking them gently behind his ears. It’s time to strike the flint and let his lovely little Uchiha go up in flame.

What lies beyond the Mangekyō—if anything—is a mystery whose secrets have long eluded Tobirama.

He’s eager to finally have his answer. Curious to know what it looks like when an Uchiha breaks.

“Koibito, we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been eagerly anticipating someone asking for Tobi's perspective, just so I could drop the bomb. <3


	40. TobiIzu - Imprisoned (Part 1 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobirama digs his nails into the bedrock just to reaffirm he’s alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Senju Tobirama / Uchiha Izuna  
Rating: M  
Theme: Imprisonment  
Warnings: Play Despacito. Open ending where character death may or may not be implied. Mild gore. Imprisonment with piss poor standards and no regulatory board to speak of. Consensual cannibalism.

“Well, this is nice,” Izuna announces with faux cheer as he does every so often, the only tell being a slight hitch in his breath as he shifts to a more comfortable position.

Not that there’s anything like comfort to be had here, deep in the belly of a beast—a war machine propagated by greed and hubris. Tobirama digs his nails into the bedrock just to reaffirm he’s alive. Each pinprick of pain flares brightly before it’s subsumed by the intimate, whole-body ache he’s come to know like a lover. They’ve been in this dark prison—bound and bereft of chakra—long enough for even Tobirama’s preternatural sense of time to have abated into nothingness. Hunger pangs have come and gone, leaving only an odd sense of listless euphoria in their wake. He laughs, tries to at least, but all that comes out is a dry, airy cough.

“Better than an onsen,” he agrees, smiling with lips so chapped they’re bloody. Despite his expression remaining unseen, he finds comfort in the fact that at least his appreciation for Izuna’s dark humor is evident in his voice. Funny how pain shared can bring the unlikeliest of people together.

“Yeah. Why go to a hot spring when you can spend however long in this literal shit hole? The air here is perfect for my skin.” There’s a soft rustle, the sound of a body being dragged closer. Each resounding slap of Izuna’s hands is punctuated by a grunt of effort.

Their captors were clever. Unlike most shinobi, who would take the opportunity to gloat by means of fists, kunai, and expletives alike, these mercenaries understood the danger inherent in taking such powerful men as Senju Tobirama and Uchiha Izuna. They had been taught the merits of delayed gratification.

Never handle the enemy more than you have to, lest they have power that you didn’t account for.

Bindings can be slipped, so all traps should accommodate for that inevitable escape by being layered thicker than an onion. Chakric seals, earthen boundaries, stolen senses—diversification is key. 

For all their chakra, men are weak in the face of their more human needs. Hunger. Thirst. Take from your prisoners everything, make them less than human, and death will be assured without personal risk.

Only then should you return to claim the trophies of your kill.

It’s a strategy Tobirama never had the patience or need to enact, but he can admire the ingenuity. However, he’s fairly certain Izuna, for all his bluster and show-boating, doesn’t share in his academic appreciation.

“Do you hear how rough this fucking floor is? It’s exfoliating my kimono right off. Best skin-care regime I’ve ever had.” 

“I’ll be sure to avert my eyes,” Tobirama assures, his drawl filling the small, sealed room they’ve been left in to be forgotten. “Though, I must give my compliments to our hosts for being so thoughtful as to make your appearance palatable for me.”

There’s a snort, a long, sustained groan, then heat fills the sensory void next to Tobirama’s shoulder where he rests against the frigid stone wall. A wet palm feels its way over his hip, reaching across his lap in search of his remaining hand. Once located, Izuna laces their filthy fingers together, ignoring the way they stick—blood, dirt, and the trappings of internment the only thing between them.

The touch is welcome in this dark, pain riddled hell-scape, though Izuna brings with him the concentrated stench of untreated wounds and an unwashed body. It’s fine. Tobirama is certain he’s not faring any better, as much as he’s become accustomed to the smell of his own rot.

He squeezes Izuna’s hand, prompting him to continue.

“The private bathhouse amenities are a nice touch, too,” Izuna chirps, hissing when he slips sideways in his shuffling and leans into Tobirama’s tacky left side. It takes a second to figure out where their remaining limbs go, but ultimately they manage to settle into a comfortable slouch against each other—well, as comfortable as anything has been for a long time. Amazing that before this debacle they were the worst of enemies when they get along so well now.

Tobirama thinks that they could have even been friends of a sort in a different life. 

He kisses the top of Izuna’s head, immediately regretting it, and swallowing the bile to keep his chin resting there nonetheless. The Uchiha’s typically luxurious hair is greasy and caked with Sage knows what, all of which fail to overwhelm Tobirama’s instinctual need for comfort—a need they share.

“I’m enjoying the concubine they provided this evening,” he retorts, stroking what remains of his left arm across Izuna’s ribs where it’s pinned between them. “He has a lovely voice. Great legs.”

That earns him another chuckle, felt as well as heard. “Oh? Our hosts must have good taste. Which, speaking of, the food here is to die for.”

They rest their heads together and share a laugh, breathy and mirthless.

“Izuna,” Tobirama chides without heat.

“What? It’s been a while. It’s your turn, you know?”

Yes, it has been a while, Tobirama is well aware. His stomach felt as if it was digesting itself for what must have been days before his body finally succumbed to the realization that there would be no more meat to slake the hunger. They had held on for so protracted a time, Izuna and himself—consummate shinobi willing to do anything to survive long enough to outwait their captors and slaughter the mercenaries upon their return. But at this point, they’re both weak and burning with fever, ravaged beyond recovery.

Even if they were to face the bastards now, they would be felled quickly in their impotence. Tobirama with his gnawed to the bone arm. Izuna and his devoured leg.

They have no hope of surviving this.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll pass,” he says, uncharacteristically soft. ‘It’s time’ goes unspoken between them, but the implication resounds loud as a battle gong.

Time to accept defeat, time to rest, time to die. 

Izuna shifts more fully against him, pushing in so close Tobirama can feel the protruding femur of his residual thigh catch at what little remains of his hakama. Instinctively seeking that same security—the physical reaffirmation that neither one of them is alone—Tobirama wrests his single hand free and uses it to pull Izuna fully into his embrace.

With nothing more to be done, they sit in the darkness and take solace in the sluggish beat of their hearts and the putrid breath they share.

“We’re going to take them out like we planned, right?” Izuna asks, smaller than Tobirama has ever heard him.

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should apologize for this one. XDDD


	41. TobiIzu - Imprisoned (Part 2 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobirama wakes to pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Senju Tobirama / Uchiha Izuna  
Rating: M  
Theme: Imprisonment  
Warnings: Play Despacito. Gore. Reference to consensual cannibalism. Two completely broken men who have a long road of recovery ahead of them.

Tobirama wakes to pain.

Blinding, insurmountable agony, no more debilitating than the familiar scrape of teeth against bone, but different and all the more powerful for it.

The world is moving in ways he can’t understand and there’s a fire igniting beneath his eyelids, blinding him as summarily as the darkness of their prison. Light, he realizes. It’s been so long since he’s witnessed it or felt the warmth of the sun against his skin. For a tense moment, he winces and curses his mind for tempting him with imaginings of impossible things—early spring wind buffeting his hair, the muted thrum of chakra as it hums through the core of him, the softness of well-rounded muscle beneath his cheek. These aren’t things he’s allowed, not here in this dank coffin.

But then he begins to hear Izuna’s voice as if from far away. It grows fat and heavy with every passing second as the world seems to resolve into something with substance. He’s angry, louder than Tobirama has heard him in quite some time. Every other word pierces through the fog and breaks around him like anguish, stripped raw and devoid of the inappropriately dark humor that has bolstered them both through their internment. A desperate entreaty Tobirama can’t help but reach towards. Anything to sooth the pain and share the warmth and hope inherent in his hallucinations—to offer even a moment of reprieve from their nightmare. 

“Don’t touch him!”

The screech is overwhelming. Cacophonous. Tobirama’s ears ring with more than just tinnitus and he finally realizes that he has to open his eyes. That’s Izuna, his precious Uchiha, so far past the verge of panic he’s become half-hysterical with it. Blinking quickly, Tobirama grits his teeth and cracks open his eyelids in increments. The edges of the world run together like an ink-washed canvas, only gaining color as he fights through the welling tears. Blurs of green and brown bloom, resolving into something vaguely blob-shaped and after some time he recognizes it’s the canopy of a forest. Despite the agony of what feels like looking into the sun, they’re actually in the shade of a giant tree heavy with spring flowers.

He arches his neck back from the strong plinth he’s draped across and focuses on the sounds of struggle, letting his head drop to hang limply and watch the world unfold from upside down. 

There’s indigo and black. So much black. Izuna. By the Sage he’s lovely. Filthy, gaunt, riddled with gaping wounds, and more beautiful than any man Tobirama has ever seen.

“Don’t you fucking touch him,” Izuna screams, clawing at the arms of his captor in an attempt to close the distance between himself and Tobirama. His nails—grown long and jagged from scraping against the floor of their cell—pull forth long tears in the shinobi’s mantle, catching at the loose threads in his thrashing. There’s fresh blood, Tobirama can smell it, but he can’t tell whose it is.

An explosive hiss, then a booming voice tears through the glen, one Tobirama would know anywhere, though not recalled fondly. “Fire’s balls, Izuna! Would you stop—” That’s no trophy-bound mercenary, and if Uchiha Madara is here—if this is anything close to being real and not another horrid fever dream—Izuna is finally safe.

Safe with the promise of recovery, of living to dance again in the firelight and bless this disgusting world with a single bright point for penitents to worship with hands outstretched. To catch even a single spark would be a blessing beyond any other, as Tobirama has had the fortune of discovering over these past weeks.

Lashing out with his one remaining leg, Izuna manages to land a blow with the last of his strength and snaps his teeth just shy of his own brother’s throat. Everything about him in this instance is feral. Captivating. Tobirama has never been more entranced by a man so covered in blood, shit, and the signs of internment.

Finally alert enough to move, he takes heart in the way Izuna fights with all he has and offers his own resistance in kind. Whomever was tasked with carrying him—and it’s a man, not a plinth he discovers—is ill-prepared for Tobirama to roll out of his arms and land sloppily on his feet, crashing to his knees only a heartbeat later when his legs crumple from disuse. Leaves and sticks crunch between his fingers, sharp beneath his palm, though the ache barely registers.

As swiftly as he can, Tobirama falls into a lurching crawl to close the distance between them. Izuna, wild-eyed with desperation, manages to evade Madara’s grasp by pitching himself to the ground as well and scrambling over to meet him halfway despite having only one leg and no strength to speak of. They’re ghosts of who they used to be—knobby, sunken cheeked wraiths bent of survival for no other reason than life is all they’ve ever known.

It’s habit to fight in protection of his own life. But now, now they bear arms in the form of teeth and claws for each other. 

Izuna slams into him and frantically clutches at Tobirama’s shoulders, pulls him in, twines them together until there’s no knowing where one ends and the other begins. Equally as distraught, Tobirama cups the back of Izuna’s head to anchor him and hides his face in the safety of a too-thin neck. This is all he has left, this all-consuming love born of the bond of survival. 

Voices rise in alarm and confusion, but they fall into the background as soon as Izuna speaks.

“Tobirama,” he moans, voice thick and wet. “Tobi. You’re here. You’re really here. It’s real. It’s real. It’s _real_.”

There’s no way of knowing how to gauge what’s real or not anymore, so he defers to Izuna’s judgment in this. Swallowing heavily, he nods. As they shudder through the joy of their reunion—exchanging dry, wracking sobs—the warmth of a broad, powerful hand descending on his shoulder makes Tobirama flinch. Before he can even react, Izuna is scrabbling up to straddle his lap, wrapping his arms around his shoulders more fully as if to protect him.

“Get your filthy fucking hands off of him! He’s _mine_,” he snarls, making to lunge at whomever dared come too close. The thought of pulling apart has Tobirama wrapping his arm around slim hips and holding tight against the attempt. He can’t leave.

He _can’t_.

Footsteps backpedal through the leaves in a series of shuffling crunches. “Otouto,” a voice stammers, barely heard over Izuna’s raving and soothing in its familiarity.

Hashirama.

If his Anija is here, if the Senju and Uchiha are working in conjunction, then Izuna’s wounds can be healed. Tobirama looks down to the soggy weight slapping against his lap. Sage, his thigh looks foul—black and gangrenous, oozing with pus—but he can’t find it in him to be repulsed by anything that is a part of this man.

Uchiha Izuna, his savior, who fought back the darkness for however long they languished in that deep, fetid hole and can only ever be beautiful in Tobirama’s eyes.

Those are his teeth marks scored into the exposed length of femur, gouged out like little scoops when he ate his fill in the dark. Bile rises at the remembrance of gnawing his way through tendon and ligament to free the lower half of this leg and suck out the last dregs of bone marrow.

Izuna is in him. Has sustained him when no one else could. More than friends, more than family, more than lovers—they’re connected and he owes this man his life.

“Peace, Izuna,” he chides gently. Rubbing his stub of an arm up and down Izuna’s ribs calms him every bit as effectively as it had in the prison they shared. “Allow my brother to heal us. For me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck am I _doing_?! lol


	42. HashiTobi- Voodoo doll (Part 2 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man born with exacting standards, Izuna is prone to disappointment. Even so, he’s finding it very difficult to discover anything to decry about Tobi-chan, Tobirama’s adorable little miniature self.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Senju Hashirama / Senju Tobirama  
Rating: T  
Theme: Voodoo Doll  
Warnings: Implied incest, Madara using bad no-no words

A man born with exacting standards, Izuna is prone to disappointment.

By his clan, other clans, people in general, the weather—there are few things that he can’t peel the silver lining off of and point to the rot concealed beneath. It’s a talent, a skill. One he exercises frequently and without reservation.

Let the world see itself stripped bare and ugly as he does.

Even so, he’s finding it very difficult to discover anything to decry about Tobi-chan, Tobirama’s adorable little miniature self. The simulacrum looks so young without that habitual frown deepening the lines on its face. So carefree. So unlike the larger, louder version Izuna’s used to dealing with. It peers up at him with lovely garnet eyes not narrowed into a glare for once.

If only the real Tobirama could be similarly alluring—refined, demure, and as amiable as a geisha—as opposed to the condescending bastard who prowls the Tower in search of all of the myriad ways everyone else has failed him. The irony doesn’t fail to hit home, but Izuna’s good at ignoring his own truths in light of others’ failings.

Fuck Senju Tobirama. Literally and metaphorically. 

He sighs, running his fingers over the precious little slippers sewn at a scale small enough to fit on his thumb and pinching at the matching little folding fan tucked into its obi. Hashirama’s creation is quite clearly a labor of love, and one that his asshole of a brother has yet to discover. Tobirama’s ignorance makes Izuna grin at inappropriate moments whenever he and the Senju cross paths. He’s usually more circumspect about the thoughts traipsing through his head, but this whole situation is just too weird not to burst out laughing at inopportune moments.

If looks could kill, he’d be dead a thousand times over.

He can’t help it, though. Not when he keeps recalling that their Hokage has made a literal doll, and one that he occasionally forgets to clean off completely before he locks it away in its not-so-secret secret drawer. It’s nice knowing that there’s finally evidence of a predilection substantial enough to hold sway over the God of Shinobi in the event the Uchiha clan’s standing in the village is ever threatened. Not that it will be—Hashirama has an odd fondness for their clan, or perhaps just him and Madara. He’s certainly handsy with them both. Still, being privy to the taboo way Tobi-chan’s hair stands up in stiff, haphazard clumps is immensely satisfying.

Fire’s balls, they’d be beautiful together. 

Grinning at his own depravity, Izuna carefully finishes brushing off the dried flakes from Tobi-chan’s face and fusses with its obi to make it decent once more.

“You’re just too cute,” he croons, crouched down on his haunches to bring the Hokage’s desktop up to eyelevel. Under his direction, Tobi-chan toddles across a mountain of scrolls, delightfully clumsy without mokuton to control its movements. Little, meandering sandal prints track ink all about like the makings of a child’s treasure map.

Looming over him in an attempt to deposit yet another scroll onto the stack of documents requiring Hashirama’s approval, Madara swats at the toy in offence, a hairsbreadth from making good on his biweekly promise to set it on fire. “Would you get that thing out of my sight,” he snaps, groaning when Izuna flings Tobi-chan up to perform a neat series of acrobatics just outside of his reach.

It’s amusing how much his brother professes to hate the doll. Especially when Izuna knows for a fact that he’s broken into the secret drawer on several occasions himself. He’s only ever used it as a paperweight or a doily from what Izuna’s observed in his brief passes of the Tower on nightly patrols though, which is a little disappointing. He would have expected at least a modicum of appreciation for being able to give an exact replica of Tobirama the dressing down—or undressing—he so rightly deserves without the risk of being caught up in the escalation of petty vengeances to follow.

Maybe Madara just needs to be introduced to the concept.

“Bad enough when Hashirama pulls the damned thing out,” he mutters, exhaling explosively as he drops onto the Hokage’s chair as if it’s his own. He rides the motion as it dips under his weight and allows the odd, wooden casters to roll him up to the desk. His robes settle against the edge where Hashirama’s habit of sleeping on his desk has buffed it to glossiness. “Just put it back so we can finish the patrol schedule and go home.”

As if the schedule hadn’t been approved by Izuna’s own hand two hours prior. Rolling his eyes, Izuna allows his brother to make more work for himself and returns his attention to things that matter.

Like how perfect Tobi-chan is.

How wickedly flexible Tobirama is, even as a wooden doll. The way its jaw moves realistically with rootlet tendons and cellulose muscle to reveal a tiny, sakura-pink tongue. Or how pliantly its full lips fold around the tip of a pinkie finger—

“Put the fucking thing away, Izuna,” Madara yells, cheeks flushed an unattractive shade of puce.

Ignoring the impotent threat inherent in his brother’s blustering, Izuna turns Tobi-chan towards Madara and makes it bow stiffly at the waist far more respectfully than the real thing would ever deign to do. “As you desire, Uchiha-sama,” he wheedles in a high falsetto that isn’t anywhere near the rolling baritone Tobirama boasts. “I’ll go back in the desk for you. I’ll do anything you say because you’re so much stronger and smarter than I could ever be.” Then he spins the doll to face away in slow motion, flexing his wrist to make it wriggle comically.

“But wouldn’t you rather see me,” a pause, “spread out on it.” He tries his best to contain sputters of laughter as he pinches the back of the toy’s blue kimono and lifts it up to offer a peek of the pert bottom beneath. 

The blow comes out of nowhere, a solid smack to the side of his head that makes him see spots and sets his ears to ringing. It rocks him on his toes and tears away the dam of his restraint, setting him to guffawing as he clings weakly to the side of the desk. Annoying his Nii-san is one of life’s greatest joys, second only to getting under Tobirama’s skin.

Sage, if only that pasty bastard knew about any of this.

“Take that monstrosity and shove it back where you found it before I shove it up your ass!” Madara roars at full volume, using the advantage of his position to plant his foot against Izuna’s hip and shove.

Tucking the doll close to his chest, Izuna rolls with the momentum of the impact and rocks smartly to his feet, bouncing on his toes like the little boy he was never allowed to be. “You wouldn’t dare,” he gasps in exaggerated affront, patting Tobi-chan’s back gently. “Don’t listen to Nii-san. He can’t help that he’s an emotionally constipated monster.”

“Oh, I’ll show you a monster, brat.”

However, before Madara can make good on his threat, there’s the distinct feel of the privacy seals on the Hokage’s door unlocking. It’s a queer, oily sensation, and one that has Izuna’s eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. If that’s Hashirama, they’re so fucked. Well…_he’s_ so fucked.

Hissing like a tea kettle, he dashes back to Hashirama’s desk and tries to activate the release lever on the hidden drawer to no avail. It clicks impotently and refuses to budge, because of course it does. Fine. If he can’t avoid being caught red-handed, he’ll at least paint a pretty enough picture not to die on the spot.

Madara slaps at him as he hops up onto the desk, but is too distracted by catching the scrolls he upends to aim true. Settling Tobi-chan on his lap, Izuna leans onto one arm and expertly maneuvers his body into a gentle S-curve. He’s seen Tobirama do this a thousand times. It never fails to win a smile from Hashirama, so there’s hope. Though, come to think of it, that smile might be a Tobirama-specific incest thing.

“Look natural,” he says, kicking Madara’s thigh and receiving a dark glower for his troubles. Whatever, his Nii-san is probably immune to Hashirama’s wrath, unlike some delicate, too-pretty-to-die spymasters.

A casual grin over the shoulder, a bright welcome, and he should be golden. Hopefully.

The door swings open on silent hinges, but for all of Izuna’s hurried machinations, it’s not Hashirama who enters. Senju Tobirama sweeps into the room with his regal bearing and floor devouring stride, and it takes everything in him for Izuna not to choke on sheer, unbridled _joy_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was getting longer than the norm, so I split the chapter in two. Next up is Tobirama's discovery of Tobi-chan and the revelations to follow. ;D


	43. TobiIzu- Spider (Part 3 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izuna only knows one thing for certain. Their clutch is going to be _beautiful_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Izuna  
Theme: Yōkai  
Rating: E  
Warnings: Straight up monster fucking. Spider bits and weirdness. (Well, more so the spirit of spider bits; spider bits-lite if you will. An amalgamation of parts that have little scientific basis and I sincerely apologize to any and all arachnologists whom have stumbled over this travesty.) You've read over 50k of my shit...you know what I'm about by now. XD
> 
> **This won't make sense unless you've read the first two parts:**  
Part 1- <https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898752/chapters/49682228>  
Part 2- <https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898752/chapters/51320599>

There have been many highlights over the course of the two centuries the world has been fortunate enough to host Uchiha Izuna.

Prancing about in his own skin without concern for igniting a mass hysteria was one of them, a pleasure taken too quickly when other sentient beings began to cluster and propagate. Fortunately, insinuating himself into the humans’ butterfly-brief lives turned out to be a game worth playing as well.

There is an art to folding his arachnid features like the delicate flaps of an origami flower, petals soft and small enough to fit in one hand. Ōtsutsuki Indra. Uchiha Saisho. Uchiha Izuna. He’s taken many names since his hatching, and between his brood brother and him they’ve sired quite the impressive clan—Yōkai blood thrumming through a thousand mortal hearts, glowing bright and strong in the eyes of every subsequent generation. 

Izuna is proud of the shadow his wide web casts.

But, the promise of capturing a new and different lineage is something even more enticing. A line founded in the insurmountable strength of two species of Yōkai spider with disparate, but complementary skill sets and a combined beauty that will surpass them all. Uchiha and Senju bloodlines braided together. Inextricably mated. Tobirama’s back bowing under the yoke of their eggs.

The thought has his pedipalps whipping violently with an anticipation he hasn’t felt since the beginning when he fathered his first bastard clutch.

Sage, Izuna wants nothing more than to slaughter everyone in this meeting room and fly across the dais to take what Tobirama is very clearly offering. He’s surprised Madara isn’t growing at least a little dark beneath the collar being so close to the Senju. That’s fine, though. All the more for him.

Tobirama is an island adopted and placed within the sea of an all-too-human clan, too inexperienced to control his impulses the way Izuna and Madara have learned through the years and with no other Yōkai to guide him. He exudes pheromones so thickly Izuna can’t help but to let his mouth hang open to taste the air. There’s no innate understanding of propriety. No tact. And Izuna wonders how mortified Tobirama would be if he knew he’s been advertising like a _whore_ since adolescence.

There’s a reason the typically modest Uchiha as a whole shy away from his company.

The meeting ends quickly enough, Madara sees him off with a sardonic scoff that’s as good as a blessing, and Izuna finds himself rubbing his cheek against the cool line of metal seals inset into the door of Tobirama’s office before he realizes how he got there or what he’s doing. There. It’s his now.

The delicate tendril of Tobirama’s dragline thrums against his ankle, beckoning. And so, with no other option left to him, Izuna knocks. A sweet exchange, an even sweeter courting dance, and he revels in watching Tobirama come apart at the seams once the little wolf spider realizes he’s not alone in the world.

All four eyes wide and glassy, Tobirama watches him change like the cresting of the sun.

“Mmm,” Izuna hums deep in his thorax, setting the pitch low enough for Tobirama to _feel_ it. “So pretty. But, as delicious as you look, Tobi-ra-ma…” he pauses long enough to offer a glimpse of his black chitin as a token of gratitude for Tobirama’s trust in revealing his own, “…this isn’t a game I’ll let you win.”

He’s a black widow—his venom only infinitesimally less potent than Madara’s—and if Tobirama wants to drag out the foreplay, he’ll humor him, but he’d rather not. Patience is a delicacy he only enjoys when stalking prey, not in securing a mate. Apparently Tobirama feels the same. Between heartbeats, there’s a blinding flash and his prospective mate bursts forth from his bed of splinters to swallow the space between them. The impact of tufted claws slams Izuna back against the desk. He goes with it, eagerly spreading his still-human legs to accept the swelling bulk of Tobirama’s abdomen between them. The brushes and scrolls that survived their earlier courtship dance go flying.

As another flood of pheromones envelopes them it’s all Izuna can do not to slaver.

“You,” Tobirama snaps, punctuating the word with a clap of his fangs.

“Me,” Izuna agrees readily, all sly tease and open invitation. The wave of black chitin finally surges up his neck to devour his face and turn his features as dark as his hair. With such an aesthetic opportunity, he would be remiss not to activate his sharingan from all four pairs of eyes, to allow his fangs to unfurl from within his mouth.

For the first time in their history together, Tobirama meets his gaze unflinchingly. “You’re a demon, too. Is this why…?” he asks, stuck somewhere between incredulity and anger.

Izuna blinks slowly and allows his true legs to unfold from the silken layers of his kimono, hakama tearing away like paper. It’s easy enough to surmise what he’s thinking. “Is this why you can’t stop thinking about me?” he drawls. “Is this why you have to disappear into the forest every year since we met because you can’t control your urges around me?” he fills in. Such feral little explosions of pent up need—he often looked forward to the summer solstice when he could sneak through the leaves to bear witness to his rival’s feedings. Not that they will be necessary anymore after this. 

“No,” Tobirama snarls. “Is this why you are such an incessant pain in my ass?”

Taken aback, Izuna gapes, then bursts into laughter. Sage, he couldn’t have found a more complementary mate. Head thrown back in glee, he wraps his multitudinous legs around Tobirama, carding his claws through the soft tufts of fur along the dorsal swell of his abdomen.

“You’re so lucky you smell like sex right now,” he hisses joyously. Any implied threat falls by the wayside in light of their positions.

Tobirama jerks forward with a jolt of static electricity to settle his mandibles around the long line of Izuna’s throat. They rest there, quivering. After a moment of indecision, he takes a small, tentative taste. Then a deeper one.

Izuna groans at the combination of Yōkai pedipalps bracketing his face and the very human teeth and tongue dragging divots in his chitin. Despite Tobirama’s inexperience—or perhaps because of it—there’s a stark honesty to their foreplay that he hasn’t experienced before. It’s precious to find what’s tantamount to tenderness for their kind in a born and bred shinobi, especially this one.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I smell like nothing of the sort,” Tobirama retorts, the words too breathy to be believable. “I’m going to devour you whole and whittle your bones into brush handles.”

Amazing how natural he is at dirty talk too. Mouth hanging open, Izuna pulls Tobirama’s spider-like abdomen down to rest flush against his own.

“Don’t—don’t have bones,” Izuna whines. “Just the one.” With that he thrusts up, feeling for the swell of Tobirama’s sex and groaning at just how hot the folds are against him.

Tobirama twitches once, digs his teeth in harder, then slams his white body down so viciously the edge of the desk digs a groove into Izuna’s dorsum, adding a delicious spark of pain to the promise of pleasure. The fur on his belly is soft against Izuna’s bristles and he wonders if he’ll be able to rub his cheek against it once Tobirama is curled up and sated in the afterglow. Knowing him, probably not, but a Yōkai can dream. 

“You're disgusting. I want to _feed_,” Tobirama asserts.

“No, you want to mate,” Izuna informs him.

Just as Tobirama begins to pull back to lance him through with a particularly scathing diatribe, Izuna rubs his gonopod through the growing wetness between them and wins the argument before it’s begun. Such a lovely mate, white as a magnesium flare and ten times as deadly. Izuna wraps Tobirama up in his long, slender legs and tugs him in to share a more human show of intent, to convince him that Izuna, with his substantially longer experience, is _right_.

The kiss is awkward at first, too many limbs fighting to gain dominance. But, after a bit of trial and error, Tobirama figures out how to maneuver his pedipalps to twine with Izuna’s own, how to curl his mandibles against the softness of Izuna’s cheeks. It’s sweet how pliant he becomes with the realization that yes, hunger is his body’s way of telling him he needs a clutch.

Poor Yōkai, play acting at being human so long he’s convinced himself he is one.

“See?” Izuna croons softly against his lips. And apparently Tobirama does, because not a heartbeat later, those folds part and Izuna is floored by the crush of wet heat taking him in and milking him without reservation. It's so abrupt that he can't prepare for it. His eyelids flutter as he groans and instinctively maneuvers his cock-like gonopore to extend from his slit fully, to take, and take, and _take_ what’s on offer.

Fire’s balls, he hasn’t been sheathed in an egg-bearing Yōkai in centuries. He had almost forgotten the incandescent pleasure of sharing passion while in his true form—legs bound tightly around familiar curves and held fast in turn. Panting, he gives Tobirama the wet, open-mouthed kisses he needs and takes another few centimeters of depth for himself. Eggs shift a hairsbreadth from his prehensile tip, making him jerk and rut in an attempt to feel their gentle press. Unfortunately, it’s not possible like this. Tobirama, being an egg-bearer, is too large, too solid for Izuna to conquer fully the way he wants to. Still, being accepted and taken as a mate by the vicious wolf spider is victory enough. 

Every merciless squeeze of Tobirama’s channel has him spilling praises and expletives directly into Tobirama’s mouth and receiving answering grunts of pleasure in turn. Izuna doesn’t have to move his abdomen to bring them both to completion, but Tobirama is new to his body in many ways. Pistoning hips are what he knows, so Izuna gives him that small comfort as well.

It’s a miscalculation of the most heinous sort.

The friction in addition to the peristaltic contractions is too much in a way that makes his blood catch fire. His claws catch at the shreds of Tobirama’s clothing, tear rends in the desktop. Every slap of chitin echoes in concert with the dueling heartbeats in his throat. All he wants is for this moment to last forever, but it won’t. Not at all. Crying out, Tobirama finds his release, shuddering and grinding down to meet each thrust. His channel spasms and swallows around Izuna like a throat.

Too much. Sage, it’s all too much. Clenching his teeth, Izuna tries to stave off the looming orgasm that has his eyes slipping shut of their own accord and his legs curling in like a coffin. He manages to hold out for another few seconds of blinding pleasure, then arches under Tobirama’s weight with a scream, one that his mate eagerly swallows whole. 

The world around them shifts as fluid seeps from his gonadal ducts to slowly and steadily wet Tobirama’s fur. Sound begins to come back in after his blood cools enough to remember how to breath. He inhales great gouts, only belatedly realizing that it’s Tobirama’s air he’s quaffing. They’re still languidly kissing like humans in the afterglow and Izuna finds he doesn’t care to stop.

After a long, sensuous stretch of taking his fill, Tobirama eases back on shaky forelegs. His red eyes look sleepy, half-lidded as they are, complemented by the bright thrum of his tattoos and the flush of wet lips. 

“Mating,” he says simply, still managing to sound put out despite his breathlessness.

“Mating,” Izuna agrees readily.

“I have…much to learn.”

The admission likely costs him, so Izuna eases his discomfort with a smile. A genuine smile, not the caustic grin he typically favors. “Don’t worry, Snowflake, we have time. You’re not alone, now.” Sex must have gentled them both, because Tobirama doesn’t frown at the moniker and Izuna finds that he actually intends the affection behind it. Pheromones are a powerful thing.

“Not alone,” Tobirama snorts, brushing Izuna’s damp bangs off of his forehead with his pedipalps. “Are there others like us? Madara?”

Izuna hums in acknowledgement. “The Uchiha all have a little bit of Yōkai blood. Madara’s the only one like you, though.” When Tobirama lifts a single eyebrow, Izuna continues, mandibles waving happily. “An egg-bearer.”

There’s a long, heavy pause. Tobirama’s expression darkens considerably, even as his channel reflexively squeezes around Izuna in congratulations.

“Eggs...Did you_ impregnate_ me, Uchiha?”

“What did you think would happen when you jumped me and rode my dick bareback on your office desk?” Izuna asks, incredulously.

A spider Yōkai’s first mating season is rarely fruitful, especially without using palps to transfer the sperm packet, but he doesn’t deign to share that morsel of wisdom. Best to let Tobirama panic now and make himself more amenable to the idea in the breeding season to come. Izuna doesn’t know how hard he’s going to have to kiss ass to keep his mate placated until then—can only guess at how deep their bond will grow in the coming year.

He only knows one thing for certain.

Their clutch is going to be _beautiful_.

If he survives to see it, of course. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked for more of this AU, so boom. I hope the NSA agent monitoring my computer enjoyed the google searches on the mechanics of spider fucking.


	44. HashiMada- Fae (Part 1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since he was a child, Madara has watched the spirits of the forest come and go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Senju Hashirama / Uchiha Madara, implied Senju Tobirama / Uchiha Izuna  
Theme: Fae  
Rating: M  
Warnings: Manipulation, dub-connish towards the end (via emotional manipulation)

Ever since he was a child, Madara has watched the spirits of the forest come and go, flitting though the tree boughs like fireflies. Fairies with their ancient, elemental roots and twisted faces, trickster kitsune, and Yūrei flickering in his periphery like forgotten memories. He’s seen them all and navigated each of their peculiarities with the staunch constitution of a boy secure in knowing laws of the world to be black and white. _Stealing is wrong. Eating little children is wrong._ _Who cares if you’re hungry? Shame on you!_

A firm talking to held even the worst of monsters at bay, he found.

And then there was Hashirama.

Sweet, kind Hashirama who was his age and loved nothing more than to skip rocks and brandish those same stones at the each-uisge when they would mount the banks for an easy meal. Frolicking along the river and through the woods was a favored pastime, and one that cemented their friendship and flavored it with the effervescent joy they shared in their hearts.

Madara knew his fast friend wasn’t quite human. He could recall seeing that sunshine-bright smile in dreams before they ever officially met, and Hashirama only ever spoke of younger siblings, no parents despite the well-tended state of his clothes. Those rounded cheeks didn’t show the hardships of hunger and there was never mention of a home to return to when they parted after traipsing about in the shadows of the forest. Still, with the constant threat of death haunting him with far more intent than the Yōkai ever did, Madara was happy to have a friend. Any friend.

War picked off the rest of them, after all, until all that was left was sweet, kind Hashirama.

Over a decade together and he can’t help but think fondly of his inhuman friend, even now that he’s grown into the man he didn’t know he’d live long enough to become. Especially now that he knows to look beneath the smile.

Thinking back, Madara can’t figure out how he was so blind not to see past that amicable façade. The evidence was all right there—Hashirama’s propensity for dancing, the flatness of his eyes, the way his covetous hands were only ever a hairsbreadth away. It’s too late now to go back and reenact that fateful meeting on the river, to do it differently, and a small part of him wonders if he even would given the chance. He’s made his bed and now he sleeps in it. He only wishes Hashirama hadn’t invited himself beneath those same sheets so literally.

“Come on, Madara, you know I’m concerned about you,” Hashirama croons, gently brushing a lock of Madara’s bangs back behind an ear as he curls around his back like a lamprey. Preternatural heat roils between them and Madara doesn’t even have to turn around to know that his friend is nude again. “This war is too much,” Hashirama continues softly. “Let me fix it for you. No more suffering or having to worry about whether your baby brother is safe or not. I only want what’s best.”

Madara screws his eyes shut in the hopes that when he opens them again, Hashirama will have found other prey. However, like every day that has come before, that handsome smile greets him like the sunrise when he dares to look back over his shoulder.

“Go away.”

Affecting injury, Hashirama squawks and clings all the more tightly, wrapping tree trunk arms around Madara’s waist and pulling him hard into the cradle of his hips. “Madara, don’t be like that! You’re my gift from the divine, you deserve all of the good things I can give you,” he insists. “Don’t be so mean.”

Funny how all of those ‘good things’ come at such high cost, Madara thinks darkly. Tajima was an exemplary leader if not a good father—he didn’t deserve to be torn apart by feral dogs while relieving himself on a game trail. Such an ignoble death and in front of his squad no less. All due to a single careless conversation had when Madara’s blood was hot and his temper riding high. A thoughtless wish that he was clan head instead, because of course he could make better military decisions than a man born and bred to it for forty years.

Hashirama had smiled, eyes old and ancient, then kissed him on the lips as some sort of inexplicable ‘payment’ for something he didn’t understand at the time. The next day he was made to step into his father’s too-big sandals and take up a gunbai made heavy by the burden of his clan’s welfare in addition to the already hefty meshing of metal and wood. 

Hashirama had clapped and cheered as he stood brazenly on the dais during Madara’s ascension ceremony, resplendent in a shimmering sunset kimono and unseen by mortal eyes. Izuna—usually so confident and calculating—shifted restlessly at Madara’s side throughout the proceedings as he toyed with the cork on the small glass bottle of water he keeps around his neck still to this day. His eyes never settled on Hashirama even once, flitting to and fro almost spasmodically, though for a brief second, Madara thought he saw his brother flinch as Hashirama swept between them.

Odd, but that day was an isolated incident. Izuna never reacted that way again despite how fully Hashirama had ingratiated himself into Madara’s life. Living in the clan home, joining them for meals, and commandeering Madara’s futon as if it were their marriage bed.

Another price for Hashirama’s benevolence, he supposes. It never really came up in conversation.

Sighing, Madara allows his body to fall boneless and finally surrenders to the embrace. Muscular thighs press up against his own and those broad hands fist in his sleeping yukata until they’re inextricably spooned. Movement is impossible, so he doesn’t even try. Not that he would.

He still has no idea what Hashirama is. All he knows is that his sole friend is not the benevolent spirit he had seemed at first despite all of his protestations to the contrary. The warmth of his touch is cloying and dangerous, a comfort Madara can no longer rely on, yet still instinctually seeks.

Closing his eyes, he cants his head back to accept a chaste kiss against his temple.

“Izuna is late,” he admits, fighting to keep his voice level.

Hashirama shifts, tracing the exposed line of skin from Madara’s throat all the way down to his navel. “Is that why you’re being so prickly tonight? I’m sure he’s fine,” he replies slowly, tasting the words.

“Shut-up, I’m not prickly,” Madara retorts. He drives his elbow back, but receives only an amused grunt for his efforts. “It was just a supply run. He should have been back days ago.” A rising thickness in his throat keeps him from saying more, from giving voice to a conclusion that is too horrifying to consider. Izuna, his clever, mischievous otouto, is the last of his family. To have him lost to the same war that has taken all of the rest of the people he’s loved is—it’s too much. The first tear slides fat and heavy down his cheek to rest upon the ghosts of all of the others that have come before.

For all the loss he’s experienced, he would have thought them all used up by now.

“Oh, Madara,” Hashirama calls softly. “Don’t cry. You know I’m the only one allowed to embarrass myself like that.” Telegraphing his movements, he pulls away and urges Madara to roll onto his back to fill the body-warm void. Hashirama smiles down at him with nothing but tenderness, plants a lingering kiss on his brow, then lowers himself to sandwich Madara between his body and the futon.

The weight is both comforting and oppressive—a patchwork blanket mended with pretty lies.

“This war is such a nasty thing. I don’t know why you won’t let me end it for you. Your poor otouto, wherever he is, shouldn’t have to live like this—going out on these dangerous missions to steal the things your clan needs to survive. Going hungry to make sure at least you’ve had your fill. It makes me so sad to watch you both suffer like this.”

“He what?” Madara interjects, inhaling sharply and digging his fingers into Hashirama’s waist as he futilely tries to shove him off. He would have better luck combatting a mountain. “Izuna has been doing _what_?” Izuna would never be so stupid, would he? Their coffers are worrisomely low and the rice has been spread thin, but to think that his otouto would sacrifice his own strength in some ridiculous bid to see his brother through lean times. The thought is horrifying and rings with an odd, discordant note of truth.

What if his tardiness is a result of this constant sacrifice? What if he wasn’t strong enough and now his body is lying in the woods, butchered, bloated, and served up as an offering to the scavenger birds? All because of this stupid, pointless war.

All because of Madara.

“Whoa. Whoa!” Hashirama exclaims, easily riding out Madara’s sudden, explosive thrashing. “Shh, easy. It’s okay!”

A vice-like grip latches onto Madara’s wrists and shoves them deep into the threadbare linens. If he weren’t so blinded by visions of loss, he would be able to feel how his yukata is rucked up in the ensuing struggle and note the overwhelming heat of Hashirama’s sex against bare skin. Though, with as excruciating as the ache in his chest is, the intimacy of their position goes completely unremarked. 

“Let me go, Hashirama!” he roars, gnashing his teeth. “I have to go—have to see.” He chokes on a sob and devolves into desperate animal noises. There’s no purpose in continuing if he can’t even protect the one piece of his heart left to him.

“No, love. Please don’t cry. I would never let anything hurt you,” Hashirama objects. “Let me end the war and I promise you I’ll bring your baby brother home safe. I can do it. You know I can. I’ll cut down every single human who has ever lifted a weapon in your presence.” A kiss, strong, chaste, and unyielding. “Just tell me that’s what you want.”

“Yes!”

“You’ll give yourself to me completely? Your body, your heart. Everything you are?” he presses, watching Madara’s face intently and blurring at the edges. 

“Fire’s balls, yes! Fine! Just bring me my fucking outoto,” Madara thunders, eyes wild and blazing with the encroaching inferno of a madness driven by suspected loss.

In the years to come, he’ll think back on this moment and understand what true loss is, come to find his sandals filled with the blood of clan and foe alike as he wades through the bodies to bury faces both old and young. _I’ll cut down every single human who has ever lifted a weapon in your presence_, Hashirama had said. And that’s exactly what he did.

As with his father’s passing, Madara has only himself to blame.

He will look to the night sky as his autonomy is subsumed by magic in the aftermath.

He will lock gazes with Lord Hashirama—eyes glowing and bracketed by the telltale marks of the fae, covered in blood, and pistoning wildly with teeth bared in a feral grin.

And he will hold tight to his savior and lift his hips to meet each thrust because this is the pact he’s made—his body freely given in exchange for Hashirama’s twisted beneficence.

With no one left to fight it, the war is over.

Madara is alive and clan head of a peaceful, but empty village.

And Hashirama spoke true when he declared that Izuna would survive as well.

After all Tobirama would never have let him die. 


	45. TobiIzu - Blinded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s beautiful, divine, this twisted love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Senju Tobirama/ Uchiha Izuna  
Theme: Blinded  
Rating: E  
Warnings: Body horror, sadomasochism, and...well...a smidgen of eye-socket fucking? Quite a bit more than a smidgen. Is gross-sexy a thing?

A wall beneath one hand to stabilize him, Izuna’s hair lashed to the other—Tobirama lives for this pain they share—the squelch of wounds more intimate a sound than any other and the drag and catch of rounded bone on his glans.

The first thrust is sticky sweet, sucking him in with gentle lips and the flutter of lashes. His hand is familiar, and Izuna’s only slightly less so, but he makes it work, guiding cool fingers to where he wants them most. Burning, biting, splitting him open lends that heady taste of pain that always makes the pleasure so much more by comparison. Tobirama lets his head fall back as he takes himself in hand to make up for the length Izuna’s eye-socket won’t allow, jaw slack and mouthing empty praises to the ceiling.

Expletive-laden thanks all culminating in the bitten off syllables of Izuna’s name.

This is what Tobirama fought so hard for all of those years. Exactly this. One bright moment of blood and loss to whet his appetite, then the anchor of immortal completion wrapped so perfectly around his cock that he barely has a thought to give to the world outside. 

There was a time when the village was new that he would go through the motions of diplomacy or establishing infrastructure only to collapse onto his futon at night and regret. Killing Uchiha Izuna had been a matter of survival, but soon after he found himself without an outlet for the stress that only deep seated fatigue could bring.

The push and pull of muscle.

Grit teeth and clashing steel.

Izuna’s taunting grin.

Months passed with mounting frustration before he cobbled together indistinct memories and finally took himself in hand. A dry palm to incite the burn of a katon jutsu, nails to replicate the ache of steel. Stroking himself to the memory of that delicate face with its long lashes and tapered jaw was enough to take the edge off, yet never enough to truly satisfy.

Let Hashirama have his peace, Madara his melancholy. That taste of paradise turned out to be all Tobirama needed.

Edo Tensei was the only logical solution.

No one can convince him otherwise.

He thrusts again, savoring the friction of his calluses and gritting his teeth against the slurping sounds that make him want to come—_need_ to—far too soon. Izuna’s eye socket is as cool as the rest of his body after the resurrection, but infinitely more pliant. So pliant. The eyelids give way, parting around the purple head of his cock, and lave the underside with butterfly kisses. Precome builds in the shallow divot and leaks from the corner of Izuna’s eye where Tobirama’s flesh can’t stopper it fully. Each viscous tear drips down the lovely curve of Izuna’s face and disappears with the flick of a tongue and a smile. 

It’s beautiful, divine, this twisted love.

Tobirama grunts as he speeds up. His buttocks flex under clawed hands. Come and gore squelch around him like siren song. Gasping and baring his teeth, that familiar coil begins to wind taut in his belly, deafening him with the sound of his own frantic heartbeat. Soon, soon he’ll spill into a man whose body he knows as well as his own. He fists Izuna’s hair and wraps it tight through his fingers in preparation.

Slamming, digging deep with his toes against the floorboards and ramming Izuna’s head back into the wall with a rhythmic thunk makes the flash fire burn brighter. 

Always in this moment—the closest he’s come to meeting the shinigami on equal terms—he regrets not drilling the hole deeper just to feel eyelids twitch and flutter against his base instead of the muscle of his own hand. To watch the white thatch of hair around his cock turn pink with spattered come, and blood, and the pain that defines them. 

He comes with eyes screwed shut and mouth gaping wide in a silent scream.

Curling over to press his forehead into the wall, Tobirama thrusts desperately, short and shallow until his legs begin to shake. Release streams down Izuna’s face and the intractable Uchiha begins to laugh—high, derisive, ugly.

“You’d better hope you didn’t fuck it all out, because that’s all the lube you’re getting,” he announces in a teasing lilt, taking advantage of Tobirama’s lowered guard to slam his wrist up sharp and quick. Two fingers breach Tobirama’s body without slick or care for damaging him. There’s the fire bright burn, then the pressure of knuckles digging deep into Tobirama’s perineum. Strong fingers spread his buttocks wide and Izuna uppercuts again, deeper this time.

It’s agony. It’s deliverance. For the first time in his life, it’s a punch Tobirama can _feel_.

Izuna bites his bare thigh and worries the flesh as he does it again, again, and _again_. Warmth trickles down Tobirama’s legs and he’s not sure whether it’s blood or come or both.

“I swear, no matter how often we fuck you’re always as tight as a virgin,” Izuna groans, reclaiming his hand without warning. 

Tobirama hisses, but slides down with the motion to slam his knees to the floor on either side of Izuna’s stretched out legs. Even with blood-stained come dripping from one empty eye socket and crust gumming the other shut, he looks as impeccable as the day he first died. 

It’s a look Tobirama wishes he had the sharingan for, just to record and play back their trysts on the disagreeable nights Izuna finds his pleasure in the joy of denying them both. Tobirama leans forward to claim a heated kiss and has his jaw snatched mid-air for his troubles, redirected towards the hole he just finished fucking up into. 

“Ah, ah,” Izuna tuts, grinning all the while, “I told you whatever you put in there is all you’re getting tonight. You’d better suck it out quick before I wind up having to take you dry.”

An empty threat. They both enjoy taking turns being torn apart. Still, far be it for Tobirama to deny himself the rare luxury of being able to go longer without calling on his chakra to heal. Without hesitation, he curls down to gather a meandering trail of spend on his tongue, comfortable with the flavor of himself after already having tasted it in every conceivable combination. The copper tang isn’t new or off-putting and neither is the parchment feel of Izuna’s skin against his tongue. He licks and slurps his way up to the soft eyelid, puckering his lips and kissing each before diving in the way he knows Izuna likes. A cold finger eases the way and helps him scoop as much slurry as remains into his mouth, mopping the gore from his lips and pressing that in as well.

“Good boy,” Izuna croons, “now spit.” He holds his palm up expectantly.

So bitter, so perfect. Tobirama wants to kill him again just to have the blinding joy of resurrecting that vicious smirk over and over until it _sticks_. Grinding down against the fall of cotton gathered at Izuna’s waist, he can’t help but moan around his mouthful and obey. He lets it dribble out in a slow stream and watches from beneath half-lidded eyes for an affect that he knows can’t be seen, but is certainly being imagined.

Izuna knows him too well.

“Not much,” Izuna hums thoughtfully.

“Then it’ll cover you perfectly,” Tobirama replies, too breathily for the challenge to latch on with sharpened teeth. Despite his best efforts, this isn’t one of the nights where Izuna can be goaded into throwing him onto his back and mounting him while the pleasant lassitude of just having come makes everything soft around the edges. Unfortunate.

Izuna must sense some of that yearning because he does little more than shift his hips just enough to free his straining cock from his fundoshi and use the ring of his thumb and forefinger to stand it tall between the folds of his pale blue yukata—what was once Tobirama’s yukata.

“Well, if you’re so disappointed by what I have to offer, I guess you can take me without being stretched.” As if Izuna has ever been so cruel as to make Tobirama take the pleasure without the pain. “And you can do it without lube, too,” he drawls, pulling Tobirama’s face forward to finally meet him in a kiss—brutal, sharp, and anything but gentle—burying teeth in his bottom lip as they part. 

More than an empty threat, this man’s edict is a _gift_. They both know it. The mix of come and blood is cool where Izuna wipes his hand clean in the sweat dripping down Tobirama’s chest. Such a strong rush of anticipation has Tobirama lifting up, aligning them to feel the danger of Izuna’s cock head against the tight pucker of his entrance.

“It’s really pathetic how much you need me.”

Tobirama braces himself against Izuna’s chest, clinging to the yukata front where he knows the worst nexuses of cracks and fissures lie beneath. “When have I ever needed you?” he scoffs for show, hissing when Izuna ruts up just enough to add pressure like the promise of a kunai blade.

“Every day of your fucking life,” Izuna replies, voice low and sultry as they share breath.

And he’s right. They’ll never say ‘I love you’, but they’ll mean it with every bite and bruise. 

A vicious grip takes hold of Tobirama’s hips and slams him down so hard and sudden he screams from the agony of it.

From the joy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have fun with that perforated bowel, Toblerone!


	46. Gen- Soldiering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s amazing the clarity that comes mid-battle, when the Shinigami’s breath hangs hot and rancid in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: None  
Theme: Soldiering  
Rating: M (for heavy theme)  
Warnings: War, non-graphic battlefield depiction, broken resolve
> 
> This one is a little different. It's a snapshot from the perspective of the Kumo shinobi whom Madara slapped an exploding tag on in his first battle during the fourth shinobi war.

A flash of red and time turns thick.

It’s amazing the clarity that comes mid-battle, when the Shinigami’s breath hangs hot and rancid in the air. The clash of iron and ceramic plate, voices upraised in pain, fear, and misplaced resolve fade into no more than a pleasant hum.

It’s a vibrant lullaby untainted by the scent of unwashed bodies and loosened bowels. And in that moment where all things are possible there’s suddenly time to reflect.

Yotsuki Shiryō is a simple man, the son of a farmer and a passable hand at shoji, though war tactics are not a skill learned by choice. Being forcibly conscripted into Kumo’s shinobi armies much too old—while moderately-paid and serving the noble purpose of standing in his otouto’s stead—has been a continual series of shame and near misses. There’s not a squadron leader alive who hasn’t had a turn beating a little patriotism into him, but country has always had a different meaning in his heart. Love of country is warm laughter around a hot pot, the way the colors of sunrise set the paddies aglow, and the smile of a sickly brother with skin bleached whiter than a porcelain doll.

That’s what keeps him going in this imbecilic clash of wills, not some intangible sense of duty or pride. 

He never knew the name Uchiha Madara before his unit mobilized a fortnight ago and even now it’s not like it matters. Trading one shogun or martial lord for another won’t really make that much of a difference at the core of it. One shinobi system is very much like another, he’s found, harvesting the people’s blood and tears to mix mortar for far off palaces. If this reanimated corpse wants to try his hand at it, let him. Let the bastard play act at benevolence all the while forcing conscription and ultimately resorting to kidnapping to keep his war machine turning just as Kumo has done for the past five decades.

Whatever Uchiha Madara chooses to do, Shiryō doesn't particularly care to be around to see it.

Faceless shinobi part around him like a stone in the sea, a never ending tide of flesh. He watches as they’re cut down in waves and he should care, should feel remorse or at least a sense of self preservation. Adrenaline, terror, anything—he doesn’t, though. If fact, he hasn’t been this at peace in a very long time. Maybe if he didn’t have such poor chakra control he’d be able to determine whether this calm, contented lethargy is genjutsu-wrought, but at the end of the day, like everything else in this shithole of a world, it _just doesn’t matter_. 

Ninja wire hangs heavy from his lax fingertips, a specialty even if his heart lies in plucking the strings of the koto—the proper twelve-stringed version, not that seventeen stringed monstrosity the upper castes seem to favor. Neither of them are skills that will serve him now.

Flying bodies, plumes of blood. Uchiha Madara is so close, bringing with him the pungent smell of a charnel house. He can see the flash of red armor not three meters away now and closing in fast. Two. One.

A blow more powerful than any he’s felt in his life knocks Shiryō back, stumbling over the dry, cracked desert.

As soon as the hands of his comrades catch him, holding him firm by the back of his flak jacket, the genjutsu breaks, because yes, apparently that’s what had shackled his resolve. Realization floods in. No. _No_. Kami preserve him, he has a family to return to, rice paddies, so many years left to live. He panics, slapping ineffectually at the exploding tag plastered on his stomach and lets loose a guttural cry like the death throes of an animal. Please, this can’t be how it ends.

Another three seconds to deactivate the fuinjutsu is all he needs.

Only three seconds.

Between heartbeats the seal activates, a spark catches, and then—


	47. TobiIzu - Imprisoned (Part 3 of 3)

The final installment can be found here: <https://archiveofourown.org/works/25414561>

:D


	48. HashiTobi- Voodoo doll (Part 3 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobirama’s stomach continues to roil in sudden realization. “What do you mean he makes it dance?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Senju Hashirama / Senju Tobirama  
Rating: T  
Theme: Voodoo Doll  
Warnings: Implied incest
> 
> A/n: More was requested, so here we go. The forth part is going to be nothing but shameless smut. XD

The protective seals laid on his brother’s office flare and envelop him like a warm embrace before slipping back into the subtle fuinjutsu channels carved into doorway.

It’s equally as reassuring as the familiar feel of fire-bright chakra smoldering within.

“I could sense the shockwaves of your animalistic bellowing through the wards, Uchiha,” Tobirama announces as he enters, finding comfort in the familiar impact of his heels on the floor his Anija fashioned. The hardwood is loud, the boards creaking in complaint under his weight, but it’s also sturdy without the vaguest suggestion of buckling—much like the man currently sitting behind his brother’s desk.

Uchiha Madara. Things between them are…complicated. Tobirama often finds his thoughts circling back to his erstwhile enemy in quiet moments of reflection, not that he would ever admit to the distraction. Konoha wouldn’t be the village it is today without Madara’s brusque approach to politics and continual sacrifice. A strong voice and a stronger hand.

It only took two and a half decades of bloodshed and navigating the trials of founding a village together for Tobirama to see the merit his Anija always insisted was there. He wishes he had seen it sooner, though he wouldn’t have known what to do with it then either.

Now, the cunning pain in the ass at his elbow is a different story entirely. Uchiha Izuna could be swallowed by a katon jutsu and Tobirama would gladly tilt his head into the heat and glory in the taste of ash, or so he tries to convince himself. 

In truth, he despises the fact that Izuna has fallen into his favor as well.

Curse these ridiculous Uchiha and their entire familial line. 

“It’s late, what are you still two still doing here?” he asks, voice hanging heavy like a demand.

As usual, it’s Izuna who perks up first, eyes alight with the promise of a truly spectacular lie. However, before it can spill over, Tobirama notices a flash of color peeking through the indigo folds of his kimono and holds up his hand to forestall the answer. “Stop.” He usually tries to keep his observations circumspect, but it’s hard not to pointedly follow the lithe line of Izuna’s thigh and focus directly on his lap where nestled between his legs lies a shock of gray hair—a pale curve of exposed skin, the unique fuinjutsu seals tattooed on Tobirama’s own cheeks glowing like a beacon in precise miniature.

For a long, tense moment, he simply stares, unable to process the truth of what he’s seeing. Madara stays conspicuously silent even as Izuna drops back onto his elbows and shifts his hips to bring the finely crafted doll to bear. It rides the motion and sits up splay-legged on his pelvis like a lewd standard, pitched and ready for battle.

Which is fitting, because Tobirama is about to reignite the war.

“What is that?” he inquires without expression or inflection.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Izuna simpers back, looking insurmountably pleased with himself.

It’s a doll. Of himself. Straddling Izuna like a sex prop made without his consent. Despite the camaraderie that’s bloomed between them and their occasional clandestine touches, a line has been crossed here.

One he absolutely will not stand for. 

“You have two seconds to explain yourself before I raze this tower to the ground,” he manages to grind out between clenched teeth, and there must be something in his bearing that makes the words ring true because in the next heartbeat Madara hooks his bangs behind an ear and offers his full, undivided attention. 

“Senju,” he warns, only to be cut off by a flare of river-deep chakra.

Tobirama will not win this fight, but neither will he back down from such gross disrespect. Blood races through his veins, swift like a suiton, and brings color to his cheeks. The room pulses—once, twice—and he can feel the Naka buried within the powerful beat of his heart.

Izuna, knowing him far better than anyone save his Anija, hurries to sit back up and gather his feet beneath him. A single crisp, utilitarian leap has him halfway across the room and closing in fast. 

“Shit! Easy, Snowflake,” he chides gently, palms upraised and ponytail flying out behind him. “I was just teasing. Tobi-chan is your brother’s little,” he shakes his head, looking pained as he tries to find the right word, “security blanket? He made it back when you had those two back to back missions in Iwa. Nothing weird. He just talks to it. Makes it dance and stuff.”

As if projecting onto a puppet isn’t strange in and of itself.

The ridiculous doll flops over on the desk where it rolled off of Izuna’s lap in the commotion and Madara is quick to pick it up between his thumb and forefinger, holding it aloft with his lip curled in disgust. “I’d like to point out that I’ve been trying to destroy the damned thing for weeks. You’re welcome by the way,” he offers.

Unfortunately, the gruff overture doesn’t help. Tobirama’s stomach continues to roil in sudden realization.

“What do you mean he makes it dance?”

Confident hands smooth down the wrinkles in his kimono, brushing imaginary dust off of his shoulders and straightening the front all the way down to his obi. Izuna glances up from beneath his lashes, lips twitching as he tries to repress a grin. “Nothing weird,” he repeats. “The most nefarious thing I’ve seen our your brother do is have it serve tea.”

Despite the denial, Tobirama notices the gleam in his eye—the implication of things left unsaid—and almost instantly the pieces fall into place. He resolves to kill his Anija slowly. But first…

“And why precisely are _you_ in possession of this…Tobi-chan?” he inquires slowly, tasting each word.

Across the room, Madara finishes putting the spilled scrolls to rights and tucks one into the steel tube hanging from his obi. He abruptly shoves back from the massive, wooden desk and makes his way around the corner of it, doll in hand. “Because he’s an unrepentant brat with no respect for boundaries or good sense,” he states dryly.

Instead of denying the soul-deep truth, Izuna scoffs and continues to trace a pattern of vines descending down the fall of silk framing Tobirama’s chest. Head of ANBU or otherwise, there’s not an iota of subtlety to the man behind closed doors. The warmth of his fingers brushes skin.

“You have a knack for stating the obvious.”

“Hey.” Madara strides over, hips swaying smoothly like a predator, steps silent. “Don’t be snide when I’m giving you what you want, Senju.”

Tobirama snorts, finally smacking Izuna’s wrists away to reach for the proffered doll. “I’ll be as snide as I please, Uchiha,” he retorts. 

It’s a finely crafted reproduction of himself, down to the light dusting of freckles across the back of its neck and shoulders. He curtly tears open the front panels of its little kimono to find that beneath its clothing is as painstakingly rendered as every other part of him.

“Oh, it’s a perfect reproduction,” Izuna adds helpfully, “all the way down to the dimples of your a—” A broad hand over the mouth works well enough when even the looming threat of Tobirama’s ire fails to curb his tongue. Madara inhales sharply, nostrils flaring as Izuna licks his palm.

Two of the most powerful men in Fire Country and they’re both so achingly callow. Tobirama doesn’t have time for this.

“Neither Anija nor myself will be in tomorrow,” he pronounces. “See to it that the work is completed.”

His Hiraishin marker flares bright before he can listen to the explosive refusal that’s sure to come in his wake. 


	49. HashiIzu - Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izuna's Fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Hashirama x Izuna  
Rating: E  
Theme: The seasons  
Warnings: Coercive rape, reference to past character death, manipulation

Izuna glances left and right, and unfurls his chakra as far as his restricted reserves can reach. He knows he shouldn’t be here. Every minute spent kneeling in grave dirt and tracing the engraved kanji of his former enemy’s name is a risk—but one he takes every year without exception.

He pulls out a small bucket and ladle from the folds of his kosode and sets to scrubbing away the stains on the granite haka that houses Tobirama’s ashes. In years past, he had often wondered why what should be a family grave only hosted one name despite the scores of Senju to have passed prior to the peace accords. Surely Tobirama should have been interred among kin, not here in this lonely patch of woods. 

Those curiosities have long since petered out. 

Now, he simply chases the ghost of a man he once hated and sends forth prayers as enticements for his return.

Izuna sighs. It’s with reverence that he slowly unwraps a scrap of cheesecloth and lays out a single onigiri. So far as offerings go, it’s a paltry one, but all that could be spared from the Uchiha’s strictly-rationed larder. 

Pragmatic as the man was, he thinks Tobirama would understand. 

Incense soon follows. He places two bundles of twelve sticks into the brass incense holders to either side of the headstone—one stick for each of Tobirama's twenty-four years of life—and again sends forth a subtle wave of chakra. He senses the thrum of the stalwart trees around him, but nothing more. Certainly nothing human.

Satisfied, he sets down a tallow candle and takes in a deep, bracing breath, fists clenched.

It’s like this every year, that initial hesitation before breaking Hashirama’s mandate. Izuna is well aware that a single katon jutsu could spell his end under the Senju’s regime. Still, the thought of Tobirama’s arms crossed and condescension plain in the face of his cowardice drives him to flash through the first three signs quick as thought. 

_ Horse, tiger, serpent. _

He exhales heavily— 

_ Ram, monkey, boar. _

Fills his lungs with as much clean, forest air as he can—

_ Horse, tiger. _

And rounds his lips tightly around the thin spout of flame that surges forth through his neglected chakra coils. The candle smokes and lists to one side under the force of it, but he manages to exercise better control before the bundles of incense ignite completely. 

He lets the jutsu go as quickly as he can and slams the glory of his fire back down behind self-constructed walls. It’s too tempting to keep a hold of, too dangerous to resist the pull of his own potential conflagration. There was a time when he didn’t have to, a time when he stood by his brother’s side and let it burn into the night. But, that was long ago—before Hashirama himself had tattooed the chakric seal on all clan elders’ foreheads.

It wouldn’t be so faulty as to allow him a single stolen jutsu if Tobirama had been the one to place it. 

Izuna screws his eyes shut against the sudden image of Hashirama’s smile when he had approached with the needle and claps his hands together in prayer—instead he pictures much paler hands cupping his own and serving as the sconce to house his dying flame. 

“I miss you,” he whispers to the silent stone.

It’s impossible to recall the exact moment when the memory of Senju Tobirama shifted from hated foe to something almost reverential. He had been a sworn enemy, Izuna’s foil. Even so, the Senju had tried to warn them, spewing hate and vitriol at every turn, doing his damnedest to drive an insurmountable wedge between their clans. Tobirama had known what would happen if Hashirama had his peace. He had predicted the ruthless subjugation disguised as benevolence that would unfold. 

Only in hindsight did Izuna realize that it was because of the ‘White Demon’s’ love of them that he purposefully fought to drive the Uchiha away. 

Izuna will never forgive him for dying when they needed him most. 

“Why did you have to leave?” he asks like he does every year, already knowing the grisly answer. 

He hasn’t shed true tears since Madara had his life cut short over three years ago in the same way. It’s understandable that he doesn’t realize he’s crying now.

The tears stream unimpeded for a time until a large hand curves around his jaw and gently brushes them away. A daydream. He leans into the comforting press of too-warm skin and imagines Tobirama’s downturned lips and narrowed eyes, red like the Sharingan. He shudders when fingers gently begin to card through his unbound hair.

“It’s okay, I miss him too,” a voice says softly, too rich and heartfelt to be Tobirama. 

Izuna’s heart skips a beat. 

His eyes immediately snap open. He scrambles back, half caught up in the trailing edges of his clothing and the long hair that pools in his lap. Wide-eyed and desperate, he accidentally upturns the ceremonial bucket of water, flooding both the grave and his hakama. 

Hashirama watches him bemusedly from where he squats on his haunches and casually sets the bucket back to rights. 

“I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you hated Tobi,” he says, brows rising to pinch at the midline of his handsome face. Everything in his bearing speaks of compassionate empathy—a brother here to offer Izuna comfort in their time of mourning. 

“No, I—” Izuna begins, only to choke on the words. Roots rise from the ground to brace his elbows and ease him back upright. Once he’s sitting and no longer sprawled on the dirt, they slip up under his short sleeves and playfully curl around his biceps. 

He swallows against the thickness in his throat. 

“I loved him,” he finally answers. It’s more complicated than that, but there’s no time to come up with a better lie. 

The response draws out a slow grin from Hashirama and another undulation of roots, this time snaking around his deltoids and down through the arm holes of his kosode. 

“Did you love him as much as I did?” 

Izuna buckles under the sudden, oppressive weight of chakra, verdant and mighty. He bites his lower lip to ground himself in the pain of it, blinks quickly to clear his eyes. “I don’t know if I loved him the same way. He wasn’t family or a friend. He was—“ he pauses and closes his eyes, “he was more than that.” 

The teeth in Hashirama’s energy signature pull back quickly until he’s all dappled sunlight and whispering leaves once again. His smile never falters. “Oh, that’s good! Tobi was my sweet otouto. Stubborn and hard headed, sure, but always so good to his Anija. I’m glad he had someone else to care for him like I did.”

Izuna nods, unwilling to put voice to the deception. He was never given the chance to cherish Tobirama when he was alive. It was only in death that he grew attached to the irascible man who protected the Uchiha in his own way. 

They fall silent for a time, both watching the headstone. Even the roots around Izuna still with fond remembrance. Eventually, Hashirama stirs and they take back up their strange writhing. They creep across Izuna’s chest to settle loosely around his neck.

Izuna tries to keep calm, but he knows this is a tenuous situation. To be caught outside of the Uchiha compound without an escort and boasting fingers stained with ash should qualify him for immediate execution. But, he’s witnessed the Lord First pardon some truly heinous acts of defiance in one instance, and shove a meter of vine through one of his own men in the next. There’s never rhyme or reason to his charity. 

Izuna has no idea which way the God of Shinobi will sway this time. 

“You’re not supposed to be out, you know. Even if it’s to visit Tobi. We’ve got to fix that,” Hashirama states, breaking through the maelstrom of his thoughts. 

He leans forward to brush back Izuna’s bangs and tap the green ink beneath. “Pretty sure we need to do a little fixing here, too. Tobirama designed it, you know. My otouto was really clever.” His fingers trace the graceful curves of the seal, lingering past the point of propriety.

Izuna locks his muscles tight and shifts further into the mokuton around him. His nostrils flare as he breathes, stomach squirming at the touch on his brow. 

“I didn’t mean to defy your edicts,” he blurts out. “I really didn’t. It’s just—it’s Ohaka Mairi. I was so afraid Tobirama would be alone.” Izuna makes sure to project a cloak of earnestness around his half-truth. Very real fear bleeds into his voice, and he can only hope Hashirama interprets the wavering as dismay at the thought of his brother going un-honored. 

Luckily, there’s a softness to the curve of Hashirama’s smile when he shifts close enough for them to sit side by side. His arm is a firm, heavy weight across Izuna’s shoulders, comfort and threat both. 

“Tobi’s never lonely. He has me. But you’re right, he deserves to have all of his precious people here. It’s a shame he had to go. If there had been any other way,” Hashirama explains, allowing his thought to remain unfinished.

“I couldn’t let him and Madara keep trying to hurt the village. You understand, don’t you?”

The vines wrapped around Izuna’s neck and chest dig in deep, stinging like nettles as they clamp down. A particularly vicious root slides around the taper of his waist to twine itself into the layers of his fundoshi like a lover’s caress. He clenches his jaw and leans his weight more fully against Hashirama’s side in the vain hope that it will go no further if he capitulates.

“I’m sure,” he wheezes, “I’m sure they understood, too.” The words settle on his tongue like ash. “Willing sacrifice. For Konoha. For peace.”

The mokuton doesn’t retreat, but the tension in the bonds does relent somewhat.

“I’m glad you agree.”

The sudden, sweet rush of air has Izuna gasping, holding desperately to Hashirama’s haori. He glances up—notes the strong jawline and open, expressive face—and thinks he can understand why his own brother was so enamored with this monster. 

Madara always did like pretty things. 

Hashirama meets his gaze. For a brief second, there’s a flash of deep-wood darkness, but it resolves quickly to be replaced by a bittersweet longing, evident in the tenderness of his smile and the fine lines at the corner of his eyes. “You look so much like your brother,” he murmurs. He cradles Izuna’s pale cheek in his palm and grins with too many teeth. When Izuna shudders without leaning away from the touch, something wondering and soft slips into Hashirama’s expression. 

As tranquil as a hidden vale, he licks his lips, leans in close, and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Izuna’s mouth—moisture glinting when he pulls back to study the flush he leaves there. 

“I haven’t been giving you and the Uchiha the attention you deserve lately, have I? And here you are being so good to my Tobi and me. You deserve our thanks.”

Izuna freezes. There are worse kinds of shame than what he suspects is about to happen, though for the life of him, he can’t name them. 

“Ah, I’m not owed anything, Lord First. And the clan is doing well enough, there’s no need to—” he tries to say in a last desperate bid to offset Hashirama’s sudden interest, but the words die in his throat. 

Hashirama eases in and snares him with all the inevitability of creeping vine. 

This time, the kiss is deep and intent, brazen strokes of tongue meant to discover and claim. Hashirama drags teeth along his bottom lip and dives back in with growing fervor. 

Izuna responds enough to placate, but not further incite the man’s lust—affected little gasps, shudders played off as desire instead of fear. It doesn’t matter though. Even if he were to pull away, Hashirama would still take what he pleases. The evidence of that fact lies in every corpse on a mokuton gallows, there and gone again within minutes. 

He accepts Hashirama’s roving hands, allows himself to be pushed back into the dirt. There are few insults he hasn’t suffered in the harrowing years following the peace accords. If he manages to make it out of this ill-fated Ohaka Mairi with his life, if not his dignity intact, he’ll send up thanks to the Sage. 

His body was only ever a tool. Maybe if he thinks that phrase hard enough, it’ll make it true. 

Hashirama’s broad frame presses him down and settles between his legs as if by right. He takes his time in planting tender kisses along Izuna’s neck and chasing them with his tongue. Long hair falls around them like a silk curtain—unintentionally shielding them from Tobirama’s gaze—for which Izuna is eternally thankful. 

Another shift of weight, hot breath in his ear. “You look like Madara, but you feel just like Tobi. So good. You’ve all been so good to me—my precious people,” Hashirama whispers like it’s a shared secret. “You’ve worked so hard, Izuna, and here I’ve neglected you for so long when I should be loving you like I did them.”

The faux pleasantness and the underlying implication makes Izuna’s stomach turn. He shudders in revulsion but holds firm, spreads his thighs wider. He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet and accepts every fetid touch in an attempt to control the fallout.

Tan hands, best remembered for snapping Uchiha Tajima’s neck, hike up his obi and drag suggestively up his sides. 

White teeth nip along his jaw, the same that flashed in the sun as Senju Butsuma was impaled on the leafy spires of his own arrogance. 

The jarring juxtaposition of memory and Hashirama’s playacted kindness prove to be too much. Izuna blinks back fluttering images of atrocities long since passed, fists his hands in Hashirama’s hair, and digs his heels into the swell of his buttocks. He grinds up against the one-sided arousal he can feel growing between their hips. 

If this nightmare has to happen, he just wants it to be over with quickly. An affected groan of impatience spills from his open mouth. With a sharp yank on the hair twisted around his fingers, he’s once again swallowing the taste of spring and sunlight. 

Hashirama takes Izuna’s fearful desperation as lust and immediately forgives him the slight. Instead, he rewards that perceived desire with a powerful roll of his hips that rocks them both.

“Mada’s little brother. My Izuna,” he gasps, voice catching on a hitched breath.

Izuna turns his head away just in time to avoid seeing the shape of his name on Hashirama’s lips. Let this be done. Let it be over. Let Tobirama forgive him for the debacle unfolding right here before his grave. Izuna only does this to protect his clan from the repercussions of his ill-thought foray onto Senju lands.

It’s a matter of survival. 

And, if what he suspects is true, Tobirama likely knew that on a personal level. He would understand. 

The next stretch of time passes in a blur. 

He watches the clouds pass overhead and tries his best to focus on the static in his own mind instead of the saccharine words of praise Hashirama doles out like white day gifts. He only registers bold hands tearing his obi free and divesting him of his kimono when the air hits his skin and draws up gooseflesh.

He pulls against every push and meets Hashirama’s lusts in kind as if performing a kata by rote. It’s a dance he knows well, even if nausea builds in his gut at having to perform against his will. The sting of a too-hot mouth on his stomach and hips brings about the even brighter burn of thick fingers splitting him open with little more than spit to guide them. 

That finally manages to wrench a whine out of him, to Hashirama’s delight. 

“That’s it, ‘Zuna. You’re tight, but you take me so well. You can take even more for me, can’t you?”

Izuna grits his teeth and clenches his fists hard enough for the fabric in his hands to tear. He prays for the shinigami to take him for what he’s about to do. 

“Yes,” he wheezes, feeling his soul leave him.

“Perfect. Just what I wanted to hear.” 

Izuna bears the assault of deep kisses as silently as he can, grunting only when Hashirama folds his thighs to his chest and presses the air from his lungs. It’s agony to remain compliant under that fetid touch—horrifying to have his body bend under the caress of a monster who thinks himself kind. 

That’s when Hashirama’s innocent façade finally breaks. 

He wrenches loose his obi and pulls down his hakama just enough to free his erection, lets it slap against the rich, green folds of his kimono. There’s no care or compassion in the way ill-prepared muscle is forcibly stretched around that entirely proportional cock. Izuna’s vision whites out and his mouth falls open on a silent scream. 

It’s too much, too much, too much, _ too much _. 

Tears fall unbidden once more as he tries desperately to breathe through the pain—holds on tight to Hashirama’s shoulders lest he rattle apart at the seams. “Please,” he chokes out, ready to surrender in the first time in his life if it means an end to this waking nightmare. 

Hashirama takes the whispered entreaty as capitulation, as want. He pants above him—rutting like an animal—his regrettably handsome face twisted in pleasure. 

The drag is too dry, cuts like a knife. But that isn’t the worst of it. Izuna knows that even for a shinobi steeped in blood the shame will linger long after the ache and tears fade. He was wrong before. This will never leave him. 

Hashirama shifts his grip on the back of Izuna’s knees and spreads him to his liking. He revels in his flexibility, so very like Tobirama, and slams into him for what might be minutes, could be days. 

“Just—ah—just like that,” he praises, hips stuttering. Unable to look away, Izuna watches him finally come apart with something between awe and terror, flinches as the ground beneath them undulates and sprouts morning glories.

The God of Shinobi is undeniably beautiful—spine arched and head thrown back as wave after wave of pleasure takes him—but all Izuna can see is a beast. 

The palm that engulfs his flaccid cock is a paw and the suggestions of blunt nails against the folds of his foreskin are claws.

It’s a betrayal of the most heinous kind that Izuna’s body responds to the mechanical stimulation. He swells in Hashirama’s hand, thrashes impotently in an attempt to unseat him. 

Grunting without care as to the way his voice carries, Hashirama rides his bucking hips. His fist works Izuna’s cock feverishly until he too eventually shatters. Each spurt of come that splatters across Izuna’s belly is a wound too deep to mend. He’ll wash thoroughly when he returns to his clan’s family home. But, even scrubbing the flakes of release from where they cling to his sparse body hair isn’t going to erase the ramifications of Hashirama’s besotted expression—the shame of his own traitorous body. 

Skin rubbed raw isn’t going to scour away the guilt. 

Izuna shivers, hoping that it’s written off as lingering pleasure. It isn’t. Hashirama smiles down at him knowingly, cheeks flushed and eyes half-lidded. 

They share a quiet moment to regain their breath, though Hashirama soon takes the opportunity to curl down close and steal Izuna’s for himself. He traces inane lines through the pool of release and sends forth a pulse of Iryō Ninjutsu to heal the damage he wrought. 

The shared afterglow—the kind consideration—only makes Izuna crack more. 

“We should do this again,” Hashirama says between languorous kisses, voice low in both command and satisfaction. “You feel so good. So perfect for me. And sweet to my baby brother. Did you do this for him, too?”

Izuna dolefully moans into Hashirama’s mouth. There’s no mistaking the intent behind that statement. He’s lost—claimed by an impetuous god. Though, looking back, he was doomed the moment he thought to honor a slain enemy-turned-idol by sneaking onto Senju lands. It was foolish to risk himself and what’s left of his clan by tending to a grave long forgotten.

At least Tobirama isn’t alive to witness his fall.

Izuna nods because that’s all he can do. Dried tear tracks pull at his skin as he contorts his face into the simulacrum of a grin. “In his honor.”

Hashirama hums thoughtfully. His powerful thighs flex against Izuna’s hips, then begin to slide away as he eases back to look at his new precious person more fully. 

Izuna knows exactly what he’s thinking, can read the adoration in those faux-kind eyes. He’s sure he cuts a striking picture—lean where Hashirama is thick with muscle, pale beneath sun-kissed hands. If not for the crown of dark hair and the softness of his Uchiha features, Hashirama could squint and see Tobirama’s double. 

Hashirama’s mostly flaccid cock twitches where it rests, sticky and still half in him. “Mmm, my otouto would have liked that. But, remember to bring Tobi a real gift from now on. The onigiri is alright, but he really likes matcha and matsumaezuke. Don’t be shy. Show him how much you really love him. He doesn’t mind sharing with his Anija.”

Flinching, Izuna pushes up to his elbows and tries to scoot back enough to expel Hashirama entirely. He instantly regrets it when a warm rivulet begins to flow along the crease of his buttocks. 

“I gift him my heart, the food isn’t—” he begins, words drying up before he can voice them. The thought of food right now makes him want to wretch. It doesn’t matter anyways, considering that the Uchiha coffers are dusty with Hashirama’s lack of regard and ill-equipped for funding lavish offerings. 

Hashirama laughs, rocking forward to press a lingering kiss against the seal on his brow. “Oh, no. That belongs to me now.” He runs his thumb—tacky with drying release—across Izuna’s lips and presses until he takes the hint and parts his lips. 

Izuna gags, takes it anyways much to Hashirama’s delight.

“You’re cute to worry, but he’ll be fine with just the food offering.”

Izuna can’t face the brightness of his good cheer. He looks away as Hashirama lets his fingers fall in favor of reaching over him and taking up the forgotten ladle. A portion of its contents winds up tossed over his shoulder to splatter across the grave marker behind him, then the rest is dribbled down Izuna’s bare front. 

“There. We wouldn’t want to leave a mess,” Hashirama chirps, tracing a finger through the watery come still gathered in the furrow of Izuna’s abdominals. He sobers quickly enough and tosses the ladle back into the ceremonial bucket with a lazy flick. 

“This was nice, but I have to go and so do you,” he announces abruptly, lifting Izuna’s chin, “It’s okay though, I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other real soon. I’ll be sure to leave my afternoons open this week to visit the Uchiha compound and make sure you’re all doing okay. We’ll see how it goes from there.” A beauteous smile crinkles the corner of his eyes as he swoops in to steal another kiss.

Izuna only just barely manages to control a violent flinch. The threat hits home with all the force of a gunbai.

Hashirama spends a moment rising to his feet and tucking himself back into his clothes, looking for all the world as if he had simply gone out for a brisk walk. “Back to your clan house, now,” he reiterates gently. With one last raking look down Izuna’s body, he vanishes in a swirl of leaves and grave dirt.

Izuna collapses back to the ground, arms spread wide and knees bent. The mokuton slips from his body and rejoins the earth below, sliding away like fingers. He thinks of the mount where nothing grows anymore—can see the shape of his brother shrouded in a perpetual veil of primrose. 

That will likely be his fate too when Hashirama grows tired of this twisted game. It’s inevitable.

“I’ll find a way to bring you back. Both of you,” he whispers to the clear, spring sky as come grows tacky on his buttocks and stomach.

“Then you can save us.”

He laughs until his lungs burn with it. 

“You can save us all.”

He laughs, louder and louder, until he breaks.

**Author's Note:**

> You guys are more than welcome to shoot me suggestions of anything you'd like to see in the comments. :D


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